University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

William  McFee  Collection 
Presented  in  Memory  of 

MARTIN  S.  MITAU 


CLOKE  *  SON. 

HAMILTON 


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Books  by  William  McFee 
%  '^ 

ALIENS 

AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

CAPTAIN  MACEDOINE'S  DAUGHTER 

CASUALS  OF  THE  SEA 

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HARBOURS  OF  MEMORY 

PORT  SAID  MISCELLANY 


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BY 
WILLIAM  McFEE 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1922 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED,    INCLUDING    THAT    OF    TRANSLATION 

INTO  FOREIGN    LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE   SCANDINAVXAJf 

COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS 

PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

AT 

THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS,  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 

First  Edition 


This  book  is  inscribed  to  those  commanders 
under  whom  the  author  has  had  the  honour  to 
serve,  who  have  achieved  firmness  without 
asperity,  tact  and  sympathy  without  inter- 
ference, and  appreciation  without  fuss.  It  is 
inscribed  to  these  gentlemen  because  while 
they  lack  the  gift  of  self-advertisement,  they 
have  contrived,  in  spite  of  the  trials  and  ex- 
asperations of  a  seafaring  existence,  to  engage 
the  respect  and  affections  of  their  lieutenants. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/commandmcfeeOOmcferich 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

This  tale  is  an  original  invention.       It  is  not  founded 

upon  fact,  nor  are  the  characters  herein  described  portraits 

of  actual  persons.      The    incidents   and   topography   are 

imaginary. 

W.  M. 


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COMMAND 


CHAPTER  I 

SHE  was  one  of  those  girls  who  have  become  much  more 
common  of  late  years  among  the  upper-middle  classes, 
the  comfortably  fixed  classes,  than  they  have  ever 
been  since  the  aristocracy  left  off  marrying  Italian  prime- 
donne.  You  know  the  type  of  English  beauty,  so  often 
insisted  on,  say,  twenty  years  ago — placid,  fair,  gentle,  blue- 
eyed,  fining  into  distinction  in  Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere? 
Always  she  was  the  heroine,  and  her  protagonist,  the  ad- 
venturess, was  dark  and  wicked.  For  some  occult  reason  the 
Lady  Rowena  type  was  the  fashion. 

Ada  Rivers  was  one  of  those  girls  who  have  come  up  since. 
The  upper-middle  classes  had  experienced  many  incursions. 
All  sorts  of  astonishing  innovations  had  taken  place.  Many 
races  had  come  to  England,  or  rather  to  London,  which  is  in 
England  but  not  of  it;  had  made  money,  had  bred  their  sons 
at  the  great  public  schools  and  universities  and  their  daugh- 
ters at  convents  in  France  and  Belgium.  These  dark-haired, 
gray-eyed,  stylish,  highly  strung,  athletic,  talented  girls  are 
phenomena  of  the  Stockbroking  Age.  They  do  things  Lady 
Rowena  and  Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere  would  not  tolerate 
for  a  moment.  Outwardly  resembling  the  wealthy  Society 
Girl,  they  are  essentially  quite  different.  Some  marry  artists 
and  have  emotional  outbreaks.  Some  combine  a  very 
genuine  romantic  temperament  with  a  disheartening  so- 
phistication about  incomes  and  running  a  home.  They  not 
only  wish  to  marry  so  that  they  can  begin  where  their 
parents  leave  off,  but  they  know  how  to  do  it.    They  can 


2  COMMAND 

engage  a  competent  house-maid  and  rave  about  Kubelik  on 
the  same  afternoon,  and  do  both  in  an  experienced  sort  of 
way.  They  go  everywhere  by  themselves,  and  to  men  whom 
they  dishke  they  are  sheathed  in  shining  armour.  They  can 
dance,  swim,  motor,  golf,  entertain,  earn  their  own  living, 
talk  music,  art,  books,  and  china,  wash  a  dog  and  doctor  him. 
And  they  can  do  all  this,  mark,  without  having  any  real 
experience  of  what  we  call  life.  They  are  good  girls,  nice 
girls,  virtuous  girls,  and  very  marriageable  girls,  too,  but  they 
have  a  superficial  hardness  of  texture  on  their  character  which 
closely  resembles  the  mask  of  experience.  They  are  like  the 
baggage  which  used  to  be  sold  in  certain  obscure  shops  in 
London  with  the  labels  of  foreign  hotels  already  pasted  on  it. 
It  follows  that  sometimes  this  girl  of  the  upper-middle,  com- 
fortably fixed  class  makes  a  mistake  in  her  choice.  Or  rather, 
she  credits  with  heroic  attributes  a  being  of  indifferent  cali- 
bre. She  realizes  in  him  some  profound  but  erratic  emotion, 
and  the  world  in  which  she  moves  beholds  her  behaviour  and 
listens  to  her  praise  of  her  beloved  with  annoyance.  They 
speak,  not  of  a  mistake  of  course,  but  of  the  strangeness  of 
girls  nowadays,  and  incompatibility  of  temperaments.  But 
perhaps  the  most  remarkable  aspect  of  these  affairs  is  the 
blindness  of  the  girFs  friends  to  her  frequent  superiority  over 
the  being  whom  she  adores.  She  isn't  good  enough  for  him, 
they  say.  The  fact  is,  at  the  time  of  this  story,  fine  women 
were  cheap  in  England,  and  gentlemen  of  indifferent  calibre 
were  picking  up  bargains  every  day. 

Mr.  Reginald  Spokesly,  a  case  in  point,  was  accustomed  to 
use  this  very  phrase  when  in  a  mood  in  which  his  egotism  was 
lying  dormant.  ^Tve  picked  up  a  bargain,"  he  would  say  to 
himself  as  he  leaned  over  the  rail  and  watched  the  millions  of 
tiny  facets  of  the  sea  reflecting  the  sunset.  "A  bargain,*'  he 
would  whisper  in  an  awed  voice,  nodding  gravely  at  the 
opposite  bulkhead,  as  he  sat  in  his  room  with  his  feet  in  a 
bucket  of  hot  water,  for  this  was  his  way  with  corns.  And 
Mr.  Reginald  Spokesly  was  intensely  preoccupied  with 
women.  He  had  often  sighed,  on  the  bridge,  as  he  reflected 
what  he  might  do  **if  he  only  had  the  means."     Perhaps, 


COMMAND  S 

when  he  got  a  command  .  .  .  He  would  halt  short  at 
this,  suddenly  remembering  the  bargain  he  had  picked  up. 

But  it  must  not  be  for  one  moment  imagined,  when  I  speak 
of  Mr.  Spokesly  as  being  at  that  time  a  gentleman  of  indiffer- 
ent cahbre,  that  he  was  so  regarded  by  himself  or  his  world 
afloat  or  ashore.  Indeed,  he  was  a  rather  magnificent  f)erson. 
He  played  his  cards  very  well.  He  "kept  his  ears  open  and 
his  mouth  shut,"  as  he  himself  put  it.  He  had  once  confided 
to  Mr.  Chippenham,  the  third  officer,  that  "there  was  jobs 
goin'  just  now,  soft  things,  too,  if  y*  only  wait."  The  third 
officer  was  not  directly  interested,  for  he  knew  well  enough 
that  he  himself  stood  no  chance  in  that  gamble.  But  he  was 
impressed  by  Mr.  Spokesly's — the  second  officer's — ex- 
quisite fitness  for  any  such  jobs.  Even  the  Old  Man,  taciturn, 
distant,  and  dignified  as  he  was,  was  not  up  to  Mr.  Spokesly. 
Who  had  so  slow  and  so  deHberate  a  walk?  Who  could  treat 
the  common  people  of  the  ship,  the  sailors,  the  firemen,  the 
engineers  and  wireless  boys,  with  such  lofty  condescension? 
It  was  a  lesson  in  deportment  to  see  him  stroll  into  the  chief 
engineer's  room  and  extend  himself  on  that  gentleman's 
settee.  It  was  unfortunately  true  that  some  of  those  com- 
mon people  treated  Mr.  Spokesly,  not  as  a  commander  in 
posscy  not  as  one  of  those  select  beings  born  to  rule,  but  as  one 
of  themselves.  Mr.  Chippenham  remembered  with  pain  one 
incident  which  showed  this  only  too  clearly.  They  were 
watching  a  destroyer  coming  into  port,  her  decks  lined  with 
bluejackets,  her  three  funnels  belching  oil-smoke,  her  sema- 
phore working.  As  she  swung  round  astern  of  them,  Mr. 
Spokesly,  who  had  been  pacing  to  and  fro  paring  his  nails, 
joined  the  little  group  at  the  rail,  nodding  in  majestic  ap- 
proval. 

"Ah,"  he  remarked  in  his  loose-lipped,  husky  drawl,  "I 
sh'd  like  to  'andle  one  o'  them  little  things  meself." 

And  to  this  the  third  engineer,  his  greasy  arms  asprawl  on 
the  rail,  had  looked  over  his  shoulder  and  remarked: 

"You!  I'd  like  to  see  you!  You'd  pile  her  up  on  the 
beach  before  you'd  had  her  five  minutes,  that's  what  you'd 
do." 


4  COMMAND 

It  was  a  vile,  gratuitous  insult,  the  third  officer  had 
thought  hotly,  and  he  had  watched  Mr.  Spokesly  do  the  only 
thing  possible,  walk  grandly  away.  That  was  the  worst  of 
those  beastly  engineers.  If  you  gave  them  an  inch  they'd 
take  a  mile.  And  he  made  a  mental  note  of  what  he  would 
would  do  when  he  attained  to  command — some  twenty  years 
ahead. 

But  this  was,  I  am  glad  to  say,  an  exceptional  incident. 
Circumstances  as  a  rule  favoured  the  development  of  Mr. 
Spokesly 's  amour  propre  and  he  brooded  with  intense  ab- 
sorption upon  his  own  greatness.  Now  this  greatness  was  a 
very  intricate  affair.  It  was  inextricably  tangled  up  with  the 
individual  soul  known  as  Reginald  Spokesly,  Esquire,  of 
Thames  Road,  Twickenham,  England,  and  the  unit  of  the 
Merchant  Service  known  as  R.  Spokesly,  second  officer, 
S.  S.  Tanganyika^  a  member  of  what  is  called  "the  cloth." 
Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  include  another  manifestation 
of  greatness,  which  was  Mr.  Spokesly 's  tremendous  power 
over  women.  His  own  explanation  of  this  last  phenomenon 
was  that  he  '*kept  them  in  their  place."  To  him  they  were 
mere  playthings  of  an  idle  hour.  Perhaps  his  desire  was 
most  aroused  by  stories  of  Oriental  domesticity,  and  he 
almost  regretted  not  being  born  a  pasha,  where  his  abilities  as 
a  woman  tamer  could  have  had  more  scope.  However,  he 
did  not  read  a  great  deal.  In  fact,  he  could  hardly  be  said  to 
read  at  all.  He  patronized  a  book  now  and  then  by  falling 
asleep  over  it. 

In  the  early  days  of  the  war,  Mr.  Spokesly 's  light  had  been 
hidden  for  some  years  in  the  Far  East.  Indeed,  when  I  think 
of  the  sort  of  life  he  was  gradually  subsiding  into  out  there,  I 
sometimes  wonder  if  he  would  ever  have  attained  to  such  a 
capacity  for  moral  effort  as  he  afterwards  displayed  unless 
the  war  had  evoked  the  illusion  that  he  ought  to  go  home  and 
enlist,  and  so  had  opened  to  him  the  wealth  of  bargains  to  be 
picked  up  in  England.  That,  at  any  rate,  had  been  his 
ostensible  reason  for  quitting  the  peculiar  mixture  of  tropical 
languor  and  brisk  modernity  which  had  been  his  life  for  nearly 
four  years.     Perhaps  it  was  not  so  much  love  of  country  as 


COMMAND  5 

personal  destiny,  for  Mr.  Spokesly  had  a  very  real  belief  in 
his  destiny.  Here  again  his  greatness,  which  was  of  course 
the  warp  and  woof  of  his  destiny,  showed  a  pattern  of  per- 
plexing intricacy.  He  regarded  himself  with  approval.  He 
was  putting  on  weight.  A  vigorous  man  of  thirty-odd,  com- 
ing thousands  of  miles  across  the  ocean  to  fight  for  his  coun- 
try!  He  read  the  roll  of  honour  each  week  in  the  papers  that 
met  them  on  the  homeward  voyage,  and  the  page  blurred 
to  his  sight  as  he  gazed  through  it  into  the  future.  You 
might  almost,  he  reflected,  count  out  those  who  were  wounded 
and  missing  as  well !  Whether  he  had  ever  had  any  genuine 
intention  of  becoming  a  soldier  I  do  not  know.  He  had  a 
remarkably  strong  instinct  of  self-preservation;  but  then 
many  soldiers  have  that.  As  the  liner  neared  home,  however, 
Mr.  Spokesly 's  thoughts  centred  more  and  more  truly  about 
himself  and  his  immediate  future.  The  seraglios  he  had 
quitted  in  Singapore  and  Kobe  and  Rangoon  were,  in  his  own 
words,  *'a  thing  o'  the  past."  The  time,  "the  psychological 
moment,"  as  he  phrased  it  without  in  the  least  knowing  what 
the  word  meant,  was  come  when  he  would  have  to  marry  or, 
at  any  rate,  become  engaged.  He  was  not,  he  told  himself, 
"pertickler."  He  reckoned  he  could  fall  in  love  with  almost 
anybody  who  wasn't  too  old  or  too  ugly,  and  providing  always 
that  she  had  "a  dot."  He  was  a  stern  believer  in  a  dot,  even 
though  he  did  not  know  how  to  pronounce  it.  Looming 
behind  the  steep  hill  leading  to  a  command  were  the  happy 
mountain  valleys  of  a  comfortable  independence.  To  marry 
money!  Now  he  came  to  think  of  it,  it  had  been  the  per- 
vading ambition  of  his  life.  And  here  was  his  chance.  He 
pulled  down  his  vest  and  settled  his  tie  as  he  thought  of  the 
golden  future  before  him.  He  had  a  vision  of  an  England  full 
of  consolable  fiancees,  young  ladies  of  wealth,  beauty,  and 
position,  sobbing  gently  for  departed  heroes,  but  willing  to  be 
comforted.     .     .     . 

It  did  not  turn  out  that  way,  of  course.  Indeed,  his  first 
experience  on  arrival  was  of  an  England  of  brisk,  determined 
young  women  making  munitions,  clipping  tickets,  and  con- 
ducting street  cars,  and  he  was  angered  at  the  unwomanliness 


6  COMMAND 

of  it  all.  Woman's  place,  he  had  always  believed,  was  in  the 
harem.  He  had  held,  when  lying  in  his  hammock  out  East 
and  lazily  reading  the  home  news  of  suffrage  riots,  that  the 
Government  "ought  to  have  tied  some  of  'em  up  and  horse- 
whipped 'em."  But  he  left  the  Metropolis  behind  as  soon  as 
possible,  and  went  down  to  stay  with  his  family  at  Twicken- 
ham. And  it  was  here,  on  a  perfect  day  in  late  autumn,  that 
Ada  Rivers,  living  with  her  married  sister  at  Richmond, 
brought  balm  to  his  wounded  spirit. 

From  the  very  first  day,  spent  in  a  punt  at  Kingston,  she 
had  struck  the  right  note  of  adoration.  He  had  been  telling 
her  how  his  last  ship  had  been  sunk  by  the  Emden,  and  was 
going  on  to  say  he  had  providentially  left  her  just  before, 
when  she  broke  in  ecstatically:  "And  you  went  through  it 
all?"  He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  she  followed  this  up 
with,  "How  glorious!  You  have  been  doing  your  bit!"  She 
leaned  back  on  the  cushions  and  gazed  at  him  with  shining 
gray  eyes  as  he  poled  her  gently  along,  his  large  hairy  arms, 
one  of  them  clasped  by  a  wrist  watch,  outstretched  above  her, 
as  though  in  some  mystic  benediction,  his  loose  mouth  and 
double  chin  pendulous  with  the  delicious  flattery.  For  she  was 
a  fine  girl — he  realized  that  immediately  his  sister  had  intro- 
duced him.  She  made  him  feel  his  masculinity.  He  liked  to 
think  afterwards  of  how  deliberately  he  had  made  his  choice. 

He  floated  for  a  time  in  a  dream  of  sensuous  delight,  for  she 
was  one  of  those  girls  who  will  obey  orders,  who  like  orders,  in 
fact,  and  whose  proud  subservience  sends  a  thrill  of  supreme 
pleasure  through  the  minds  of  their  commanders.  They  were 
soon  engaged. 

There  was  not  as  much  difference  between  this  courtship 
and  that  of  an  average  coal  or  ice  man  as  one  might  suppose. 
Mr.  Spokesly's  emotional  output  so  far  had  been,  if  I  may  say 
so,  limited.  But  this  was  all  grist  to  Ada's  mill.  It  was  put 
down  to  the  strong,  deep,  English  sailor  nature,  just  as  his 
primitive  methods  of  wooing  were  credited  to  the  bluff 
English  sailor  nature.  She  was  under  an  illusion  all  the  time. 
All  that  her  married  sister  could  say  was  useless.  The 
married  sister  was  married  to  a  man  who  was  a  woman-tamer 


COMMAND  7 

himself  in  a  way.  He  was  now  at  the  Front,  where  he  had 
won  a  medal  for  extraordinary  bravery,  and  his  wife  was 
dreading  the  day  of  his  return.  She  used  the  interval  of 
peace  and  quiet  to  warn  her  sister.  But  who  can  fight  against 
an  illusion  .f^  The  married  sister  had  to  shrug  her  shoulders, 
and  point  out  that  Mr.  Spokesly  was  throwing  himself  away 
on  a  silly  chit.  She  admired  Mr.  Spokesly  herself,  to  tell  the 
truth,  and  liked  to  have  him  in  the  house,  where  he  was  often 
to  be  found  during  his  six  weeks*  vacation.  It  was  she  who 
told  him  his  was  "a  man's  work"  in  a  low  contralto  voice  with 
a  thrill  in  it.  This  was  really  unfair  to  the  husband  in  Flan- 
ders who  had  displayed  extraordinary  bravery  in  holding  an 
isolated  post  for  goodness  knows  how  many  hours.  It  would 
not  dct  to  assert  that  Mr.  Spokesly  ever  played  with  the  idea 
of  consoling  a  possible  widow  who  already  admired  him.  He 
had  not  sufficient  imagination  for  this.  And  Ada  herself  was 
quite  able  to  hold  up  her  end.  She  made  Mr.  Spokesly  feel 
not  only  great,  but  good.  It  was  she  who  led  him  to  see 
where  his  weakness  lay,  a  success  possible  only  to  a  clever 
girl.  Unconscious  of  her  promptings,  he  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that,  to  do  himself  justice,  he  must  make  an  effort 
and  "improve  his  education."  When  he  heard  the  sisters 
rattling  away  in  a  foreign  tongue  he  made  a  mental  note  that 
"he  must  rub  up  his  French."  The  London  School  of 
Mnemonics,  however,  did  the  trick.  It  was  just  what  he 
wanted.  This  school  had  a  wonderful  system  of  memory- 
training  which  was  endorsed  by  kings  and  emperors,  mer- 
chant princes  and  famous  mezzo-sopranos.  By  means  of 
this  system,  learned  in  twelve  lessons,  you  trebled  your 
mtellectual  power,  quadrupled  your  earning  power,  and  quin- 
tupled your  general  value  to  yourself  and  to  the  world. 
The  system  was  comprised  in  twelve  books  of  aphorisms,  slim 
volumes  in  gray-green  paper  covers,  daintily  printed  and 
apparently  addressed  straight  to  Mr.  Spokesly's  heart. 
First,  he  was  told,  he  was  capable  of  anything.  He  knew 
that,  and  with  an  almost  physical  feeling  of  pleasure  he  read 
on.  Second,  came  a  little  story  about  a  celebrated  philoso- 
pher.   Mr.  Spokesly  was  charmed. 


8  COMMAND 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  this  was  all  bunkum 
to  Mr.  Spokesly.  It  was,  on  the  contrary,  deadly  earnest. 
Like  many  Englishmen  of  his  day,  he  knew  there  was  some- 
thing wrong  with  him.  He  was  aware  of  people  in  the  world 
who  used  their  brains  and  held  clear  notions  about  things  and 
ideas,  very  much  as  a  man  groping  along  a  foggy  street  is 
aware  of  a  conversazione  in  one  of  the  mansions.  To  him  the 
London  School  of  Mnemonics  was  a  sound  commercial 
proposition.  In  twelve  lessons,  by  correspondence,  they 
offered  to  develop  his  memory,  stimulate  his  will  power,  and 
increase  his  salary.  He  had  picked  up  the  first  half-dozen 
pamphlets  in  his  fiancee's  home.  The  husband  of  the  married 
sister  had  taken  the  course  as  far  as  Number  Six,  which 
was:  *'How  to  Dominate  Your  Friends, "  with  a  chatty  essay 
on  Hypnotism  and  Matrimony,  before  leaving  for  Flanders 
and  glory.  Mr.  Spokesly  read  them  with  an  avidity  unknown 
to  him  since  he  had  spent  a  month  in  London  many  years  be- 
fore studying  for  his  master's  license.  He  felt  on  the  highroad 
to  success.  He  joined  the  London  School  of  Mnemonics.  He 
bought  an  engagement  ring  for  Ada  and  a  handsome  bracelet 
for  the  married  sister.  He  left  them  for  a  while,  he  said, 
"to  join  up."  He  meant  to  do  it,  too,  for  there  is  something 
pathetically  appealing  in  the  atmosphere  of  late  autumn  in 
England.  It  goes  to  the  heart.  It  is  not  quite  so  piercing  a 
call  as  the  early  spring,  when  one's  very  soul  goes  out  in  a 
mystical  passionate  union  with  the  spirit  of  the  land,  but  it 
is  very  strong,  and  Mr.  Spokesly,  without  understanding  it, 
felt  the  appeal.  But  at  Paddington  he  stopped  and  had  a 
drink.  For  all  his  years  at  sea,  he  was  a  Londoner  at  heart. 
He  spoke  the  atrocious  and  barbarous  jargon  of  her  suburbs, 
he  snuffed  the  creosote  of  her  wooden  streets  and  found  it  an 
admirable  aperatif  to  his  London  beer.  And  while  the 
blowsy  spirit  of  London,  the  dear  cockney -hearted  town, 
ousted  the  gentler  shade  of  England,  Mr.  Spokesly  reflected 
that  neither  the  army  nor  the  navy  would  have  any  use  for  a 
man  of  commanding  powers,  a  man  whose  will  and  memory 
had  been  miraculously  developed.  The  army  would  not  do, 
he  was  sure.    The  navy  would  probably  put  him  in  charge 


COMMAND  9 

of  a  tug;  for  Mr.  Spokesly  had  no  illusions  as  to  the  reality  of 
the  difficulties  of  life  in  his  own  sphere.  And  he  had  been 
long  enough  at  one  thing  to  dread  the  wrench  of  beginning 
at  the  bottom  somewhere  else.  This  is  the  tragic  side  of 
military  service  in  England,  for  most  Englishmen  are  not 
adaptable.  Mr.  Spokesly,  for  example,  had  gone  to  sea  at 
the  age  of  twelve.  Unless  he  won  a  lottery  prize  he  would  be 
going  to  sea  at  seventy,  if  he  lived  so  long.  So  he  reflected, 
and  the  upshot  was  that  he  applied — quite  humbly,  for  he 
had  not  as  yet  developed  any  enormous  will  power — and 
secured  a  billet  as  second  officer  on  the  Tanganyika.  He 
told  his  people  and  Ada  that  there  was  "a  chance  of  a  com- 
mand," which  of  course  was  perfectly  true.  "It  is  a  man's 
work,"  she  thrilled  softly,  echoing  her  sister,  and  she  closed 
her  eyes  to  enjoy  the  vision  of  him,  strong  in  character,  large 
in  talent,  irresistible  in  will  power,  commanding  amid  storms 
and  possibly  even  shot  and  shell.     .     .     . 


Having  kept  the  middle  watch,  which  is  from  twelve  to 
four,  Mr.  Spokesly  was  sitting  in  his  cabin  abaft  the  bridge 
of  the  Tanganyika^  his  feet  in  a  white-enamelled  bucket 
of  hot  water,  contemplating  the  opposite  bulkhead.  He 
was  thinking  very  hard,  according  to  the  System  of  the 
London  School  of  Mnemonics.  The  key  of  this  system  was 
simplicity  itself.  You  wanted  to  remember  something 
which  you  had  forgotten.  Very  well;  you  worked  back  on 
the  lines  of  a  dog  following  a  scent.  From  what  you  were 
thinking  at  the  present  moment  to  what  you  were  thinking 
when  you  came  in  the  door,  which  would  lead  you  by  gentle 
gradations  back  to  the  item  of  which  you  were  in  search. 
Very  simple.  Unfortunately,  Mr.  Spokesly,  in  the  course  of 
these  retrograde  pilgrimages,  was  apt  to  come  upon  vast  and 
trackless  oceans  of  oblivion,  bottomless  gulfs  of  time  in 
which,  as  far  as  he  could  recall,  his  intellectual  faculties  had 
been  in  a  state  of  suspended  animation.  The  London  School 
of  Mnemonics  did  not  seem  to  allow  sufficiently  for  the 
bridging  of  these  gaps.     It  is  true  they  said  in  Lesson  Three, 


10  COMMAND 

with  gentle  irony,  Remember  the  chain  of  ideas  is  often  faulty; 
there  may  be  missing  links.  Mr.  Spokesly,  who  on  this 
occasion  was  determined  to  remember  what  he  was  thinking 
of  at  the  moment  when  the  Old  Man  spoke  sharply  behind 
him  and  made  him  jump,  was  of  the  opinion  that  it  was  the 
chain  that  was  often  missing  and  that  all  he  could  discover 
were  a  few  odd  links!  He  lifted  one  foot  out  of  the  grateful 
warmth  and  felt  the  instep  tenderly,  breathing  hard,  with  his 
tongue  in  one  corner  of  his  mouth,  as  his  mind  ran  to  and  fro 
nosing  at  the  closed  doors  of  the  past.  What  was  he  think- 
ing of?  He  remembered  it  attracted  him  strangely,  had 
given  him  a  feeling  of  pleasant  anticipation  as  of  a  secret 
which  he  could  unfold  at  his  leisure.  It  was  ...  it 
was     .     .     .     He  put  his  foot  into  the  water  again  and 

frowned.     He  had  been  thinking  of  Ada,  he  recalled 

Ah !  Now  he  was  on  the  track  of  it.  He  had  been  thinking 
not  of  her  but  of  the  melancholy  fact  communicated  to  him 
by  his  own  sister,  that  Ada  had  no  "dot,"  no  money  until  her 
father  died.  Now  how  in  the  world  did  that  come  to  react 
upon  his  mind  as  a  pleasant  thing?  It  was  a  monstrous 
thing,  that  he  should  have  capsized  his  future  by  such  precipi- 
tate folly!  Mr.  Spokesly  comprehended  that  what  he  was 
looking  for  was  not  a  memory  but  a  mood.  He  had  been  in 
a  certain  mood  as  he  stood  on  the  bridge  that  morning  about 
half -past  three,  his  hand  resting  lightly  on  the  rail,  his  eyes  on 
the  dim  horizon,  when  the  Old  Man,  in  his  irritating  pink- 
striped  pajamas,  had  spoken  sharply  and  made  him  jump. 
And  that  mood,  the  product  of  some  overnight  reflections  on 
the  subject  of  will  power,  had  been  rising  like  some  vast 
billow  of  cumulous  vapour  touched  with  roseate  hues  from  a 
hidden  sun,  and  he  had  been  just  on  the  brink  of  some  sur- 
prising discovery,  when It  was  very  annoying,  for  the 

Old  Man  had  been  preoccupied  by  a  really  very  petty  matter, 
after  all.  (The  word  "petty"  was  a  favourite  with  Mr. 
Spokesly.)  It  had,  however,  broken  the  spell,  and  here  he 
was,  a  few  hours  later,  hopelessly  snarled  up  in  all  sorts  of 
interminable  strings  of  ideas.  The  business  of  thinking  was 
not  so  easy  as  the  London  School  of  Mnemonics  made  out. 


COMMAND  11 

Lifting  his  feet  slowly  up  and  down,  he  reached  out  and  took 
Lesson  Number  Five  from  the  holdall  (with  his  initials  in 
blue)  which  hung  above  his  head.  As  he  turned  the  richly 
printed  pages,  a  delicious  feeling  of  being  cared  for  and 
caressed  stole  over  him.  Never  despair,  said  the  Lesson 
gravely,  Nil  Desperandum.  Just  as  the  darkest  hour  is  before 
the  dawn,  so  victory  may  crown  your  toil  at  the  least  likely  mo- 
ment. 

And  so  it  was!  With  a  feeling  of  sombre  triumph,  Mr. 
Spokesly  "saw  the  connection"  as  he  would  have  said.  He 
saw  that  the  importance  of  that  lost  mood  lay  in  the  petty 
annoyance  that  followed.  For  the  Old  Man  had  called  him 
down  about  a  mistake.  A  trifle.  A  petty  detail.  A  baga- 
telle. It  only  showed,  he  thought,  the  narrowness  of  mind 
of  some  commanders.     Now  he     .     .     . 

But  with  really  remarkable  resolution  Mr.  Spokesly  pulled 
himself  up  and  concentrated  upon  the  serious  side  of  the 
question.  There  had  been  a  mistake.  It  was  as  though  the 
Old  Man's  quiet  sharpness  had  gouged  a  great  hole  in  Mr, 
Spokesly 's  self-esteem,  and  he  had  been  unconsciously  busy, 
ever  since,  bringing  excuse  after  excuse,  like  barrow-loads  of 
earth,  in  a  vain  attempt  to  fill  it  up.  It  was  still  a  yawning 
hiatus  in  the  otherwise  flawless  perfection  of  his  conduct  as 
an  officer.  He  had  made  a  mistake.  And  the  London 
School  of  Mnemonics  promised  that  whoever  followed  their 
course  made  no  mistake.  He  felt  chastened  as  he  habituated 
himself  to  this  feeling  that  perhaps  he  was  not  a  perfect 
officer.  He  took  his  feet  out  of  the  lukewarm  water  and 
reached  for  a  towel. 

It  will  not  do  to  laugh  at  such  a  discovery  on  the  part  of 
Mr.  Spokesly.  Only  those  who  have  had  responsibility  can 
be  fully  alive  to  the  enormous  significance  of  self-esteem  in 
imposing  authority  upon  a  frivolous  world.  And  it  must 
be  borne  in  mind  that  to  Mr.  Spokesly  himself,  at  that 
moment,  to  fail  in  being  a  perfect  officer  was  a  failure  in  life. 
It  was  part  of  the  creed  of  his  "cloth"  that  each  of  them  was 
without  blemish  until  his  license  was  cancelled  by  the  in- 
visible omnipotence  of  the  law.     It  was,  if  you  like,  his 


12  COMMAND 

ethic,  the  criterion  of  his  integrity,  the  inexorable  condition 
of  carrying-on  in  his  career.  This  ideal  perfection  of  pro- 
fessional service  resembles  the  giant  fruits  and  immaculate 
fauna  depicted  on  the  labels  of  the  canned  articles — a 
grandiose  conception  of  what  was  within.  Just  as  nobody 
really  believes  that  apples  and  salmon  are  like  that  and  yet 
would  refuse  to  buy  a  can  without  some  such  symbol,  so  Mr. 
Spokesly  would  have  found  his  services  quite  unmarketable 
if  he  had  discarded  the  polite  fiction  that  he  was,  as  far  as 
was  humanly  possible,  incapable  of  improvement.  It  was 
the  aura,  moreover,  which  distinguished  him  and  all  other 
officers  from  the  riff-rafiP  which  nowadays  go  to  sea  and  ape 
their  betters — the  parsons  and  surgeons,  the  wireless  oper- 
ators and  engineers.  They  were  common  clay,  mere  ephem- 
eral puppets,  without  hope  of  command,  minions  to  take 
orders,  necessary  evils  in  an  age  of  mechanism  and  high- 
speed commerce.  It  was  an  article  of  Mr.  Spokesly *s  creed 
that  "the  cloth"  should  stand  by  each  other.  He  was 
revolving  this  assumption  in  his  mind  as  he  rubbed  the  towel 
gently  to  and  fro,  and  it  occurred  to  him  in  his  slow  way  that 
if  he  were  to  adopt  the  modern  ideas  of  the  London  School  of 
Mnemonics,  if  he  were  to  devote  every  fibre  of  his  being  to 
forging  ahead,  gaining  promotion,  proving  himself  a  superior 
article  with  a  brain  which  was  the  efficient  instrument  of 
an  indomitable  will,  then  the  obsolete  idea  of  professional 
solidarity  would  have  to  go  overboard.  And  just  at  that 
moment,  with  the  consciousness  of  that  petty  mistake  casting 
a  shadow  on  his  soul  and  the  sharp  rebuke  of  the  Old  Man 
rankling  below,  Mr.  Spokesly  was  quite  prepared  to  jettison 
anything  that  stood  in  the  way  of  what  he  vaguely  formulated 
as  "his  gettin'  on."  Mr.  Spokesly's  conceptions  of  advance- 
ment were  of  course  largely  but  not  entirely  circumscribed  by 
his  profession.  His  allusions  in  conversation  with  Mr. 
Chippenham  to  "soft  things"  were  understood  to  refer  to 
shore  jobs  connected  with  shipping  and  transport.  At  one 
time  the  fairy-tale  fortune  of  a  shipmate  who  had  married  a 
shipowner's  daughter  had  turned  his  thoughts  that  way. 
But  not  for  long.     Mr.  Spokesly  had  a  feeling  that  to  marry 


COMMAND  13 

into  a  job  had  its  drawbacks.  He  felt  "there  was  a  string 
to  it."  And  come  what  might,  in  his  own  hazy,  amorphous 
fashion  he  desired  to  be  captain  of  his  soul.  Had  he  the 
power  at  that  moment  of  calling  up  Destiny,  he  would  have 
made  quite  modest  demands  of  her.  Of  course,  a  command,  a 
fine  large  modern  steamer,  twin-screw,  trading  for  choice  in 
the  Pacific,  where  as  he  knew  very  well  a  commander  had 
pickings  that  placed  him  in  a  few  years  beyond  the  reach  of 
penury  at  any  rate  .  .  .  Ada  could  come  out.  She 
would  do  justice  to  such  a  position  out  East.  And  when  the 
war  was  over  they  could  come  home  and  have  a  little  place  up 
the  river  at  Bourne  End  .  .  .  nothing  very  great,  of 
course,  but  just  right  for  Captain  and  Mrs.  Spokesly.  The 
dream  was  so  very  fair,  so  possible  yet  so  utterly  improbable, 
that  his  mouth  drew  down  tremulously  at  the  corners  as  he 
stared  at  the  bulkhead.  His  eyes  grew  tired  and  smarted. 
Ah !  Money !  How  often  he  had  mouthed  in  jest  that  sorry 
proverb  about  the  lack  of  money  being  the  root  of  all  evil! 
And  how  true  it  was,  after  all.  Suddenly  he  stood  up  and 
became  aware  of  someone  in  the  alleyway  outside  his  window. 
With  a  sense  of  relief,  for  his  reflections  had  become  almost 
inconveniently  sombre  and  ingrowing,  he  saw  it  was  someone 
he  already  knew  in  a  friendly  way,  though  he  still  addressed 
him  as  "Stooard." 

There  is  much  in  a  name,  much  more  in  a  mode  of  address. 
When  Archy  Bates,  the  chief  steward  of  the  Tanganyika^ 
turned  round  and  hoisted  himself  so  that  he  could  look  into 
Mr.  Spokesly's  port,  their  friendship  was  just  at  the  point 
when  the  abrupt  unveiling  of  some  common  aspiration  would 
change  "Stooard"  into  "Bates"  or  "Mister."  For  a  stew- 
ard on  a  ship  is  unplaced.  The  oflSce  is  nothing,  the  person- 
ality everything.  He  may  be  the  confidential  agent  of  the 
commander  or  he  may  be  the  boon  companion  of  the  cook. 
To  him  most  men  are  mere  assimilative  organisms,  stomachs 
to  be  filled  or  doctored.  Archy  Bates  was,  like  another 
Bates  of  greater  renown,  a  naturalist.  He  studied  the  habits 
of  the  animals  around  him.  He  fed  them  or  filled  them  with 
liquor,  according  to  their  desires,  and  watched  the  result. 


14  COMMAND 

It  might  almost  be  said  that  he  acted  the  part  of  Tempter 
to  mankind,  bribing  them  into  friendship  or  possibly  only  a 
useful  silence.  It  is  a  sad  but  solid  fact  that  he  nearly  always 
succeeded. 

But  he  liked  Mr.  Spokesly.  One  of  the  disconcerting 
things  about  the  wicked  is  their  extreme  humanity.  Archy 
Bates  Uked  Mr.  Spokesly's  society.  Without  in  the  least 
understanding  how  or  why,  he  enjoyed  talking  to  him,  ap- 
preciated his  point  of  view,  and  would  have  been  glad  to  re- 
pay confidence  with  confidence.  He  was  always  deferential 
to  officers,  never  forgetting  their  potentialities  as  to  future 
command.  He  respected  their  reserve  until  they  knew  him 
intimately.  He  was  always  willing  to  wait.  His  discretion 
was  boundless.  He  knew  his  own  value.  Friends  of  his  had 
no  reason  to  regret  it.  That  third  engineer,  a  coarse  fellow, 
one  of  the  few  irreconcilables,  had  called  him  a  flunkey. 
Well,  the  third  engineer  paid  dearly  for  that  in  trouble  over 
petty  details,  soap,  towels,  and  so  forth.  But  with  "gentle- 
men "  Archy  Bates  felt  himself  breathing  a  larger  air.  You 
could  do  something  with  a  gentleman.  And  Mr.  Spokesly, 
in  the  chief  steward's  estimation,  was  just  that  kind  of  man. 
So,  in  the  lull  of  activity  before  lunch,  he  came  along  to  see  if 
Mr.  Spokesly  felt  like  a  little  social  diversion. 

"Busy?"  he  enquired,  thrusting  his  curiously  ill-balanced 
featm*es  into  the  port  and  smiling.  Mr.  Bates's  smile  was 
unfortunate.  Without  being  in  any  way  insincere,  it  gave 
one  the  illusion  that  it  was  fitted  on  over  his  real  face.  A 
long,  sharp  nose  projecting  straight  out  from  a  receding  brow 
nestled  in  a  pomatumed  and  waxed  moustache,  and  his  eyes, 
of  an  opaque  hazel,  became  the  glinting  centres  of  scores  of 
tiny  radiating  lines.  His  chin,  blue  with  shaving,  and  his 
gray  hair  carefully  parted  in  the  middle,  made  up  a  physiog- 
nomy that  might  have  belonged  either  to  a  bartender  or  a 
ward  politician.  And  there  was  a  good  deal  of  both  in  Archy 
Bates. 

To  the  enquiry  Mr.  Spokesly  shook  his  head.  The  steward 
gave  a  sharp  look  each  way,  and  then  made  a  complicated 
gesture  that  was  a  silent  and  discreet  invitation. 


COMMAND  15 

"Oh,  well."  Mr.  Spokesly  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
pulled  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  The  face  at  the  win- 
dow tittered  so  violently  that  the  owner  of  it  nearly  lost  his 
balance  and  put  up  a  hand  to  support  himself. 

"Come  on,  old  chap.  I've  got  half  an  hour  to  spare." 
"Oh,  all  right.  Bates.  Sha'n't  be  a  minute." 
The  face,  like  a  satiric  mask,  suddenly  vanished. 
Mr.  Spokesly  put  on  his  socks  and  slippers  and,  lighting  a 
cigarette,  prepared  to  go  along.  He  liked  the  steward,  and 
he  felt  lonely.  It  so  happened  that,  quite  apart  from  his  in- 
trinsic greatness,  Mr.  Spokesly  was  very  much  alone  on  the 
Tanganyika.  Mr.  Chippenham  was  too  young;  the  chief 
officer,  a  gnarled  round-shouldered  ancient,  was  too  old;  the 
commander  too  distant.  There  remained  only  the  chief 
engineer,  a  robust  gentleman  who  conversed  hospitably  on 
all  subjects  in  a  loud  voice  but  invited  no  confidences.  And 
it  was  confidences  Mr.  Spokesly  really  wanted  to  give.  He 
wanted  to  impress  his  ideals  and  superior  views  of  life  upon  a 
sympathetic  and  receptive  mind.  Most  men  are  unconscious 
artists.  Only  instead  of  working  in  stone  or  brass  or  pig- 
ment, instead  of  composing  symphonies  or  poems,  they  hold 
forth  to  their  kindred  spirits  and  paint,  in  what  crude  words 
they  can  find,  the  god-like  beings  they  conceive  themselves 
to  be.  Indeed,  when  we  call  a  man  a  "hot-air  merchant"; 
when  we  say  "he  does  not  hate  himself,"  what  is  it  save  a 
grudging  tribute  to  his  excessive  artistry?  He  is  striving  to 
evolve  in  your  skeptical  mind  an  image  which  can  appear 
only  by  the  light  of  your  intelligent  faith  and  liberal  sympa- 
thy. He  claims  of  you  only  what  all  artists  claim  of  the  critic 
— understanding.  He  seeks  to  thrill  you  with  pleasure  at 
the  noble  spectacle  of  himself  blocked  out  against  a  sombre 
background  of  imperfect  humanity.  But  to  get  the  very 
best  out  of  him  you  must  become  one  in  soul  with  him,  and 
do  the  same  yourself. 


CHAPTER  II 

YOU  will  be  pleased  to  hear,  sweetheart,  that  I  have 
already  got  promotion,  I  am  now  chief  oflBcer, 
next  to  the  captain.  I  dare  say,  in  a  short  time  your 
only  will  be  coming  home  to  take  a  command.  I  am  perse- 
vering with  the  Course  you  gave  me,  and  I  find  it  a  great 
assistance.  Of  course  I  have  a  great  deal  more  to  do  now, 
especially  as  the  last  man  was  scarcely  up  to  his  work.  .  .  . 
Wiile  as  for  the  captain,  I  may  as  well  tell  you     .     .     ." 

And  so  on.  Mr.  Spokesly  wrote  this  letter  from  Alexan- 
dria, where  the  Tanganyika  was  discharging  rails  and  machin- 
ery. He  wrote  it  to  Ada,  who  was  staying  with  her  family, 
including  her  married  sister,  in  Cornwall,  because  of  the 
air  raids.  She  read  it  by  the  low  roar  of  the  autumnal  seas 
round  the  Cornish  coast  and  she  was  thrilled.  Having  writ- 
ten it,  Mr.  Spokesly  dressed  himself  in  discreet  mufti  and 
went  ashore  with  his  bosom  friend,  Archy  Bates.  His  com- 
mander, walking  to  and  fro  on  the  bridge  with  his  after-dinner 
cigar,  saw  them  disappear  between  the  tracks  and  the  piles 
of  freight.  He  frowned.  He  was  no  snob,  but  he  had  most 
explicit  views  about  a  ship's  officer's  relations  with  the  rest 
of  mankind.  It  was,  in  his  opinion,  infra  dig  to  associate 
with  a  steward.  He  had  mentioned  it  pointedly  yet  good- 
humouredly  one  day,  and  at  his  amazement  Mr.  Spokesly 
had  replied  that  he  would  please  himself  in  a  private  matter. 
Captain  Meredith  had  been  so  flabbergasted  at  this  wholly 
unexpected  turn  of  the  conversation  that  he  said  no  more. 
Later  he  put  it  down  to  swelled  head.  Yet  what  else  could 
be  done?  Mr.  Spokesly  had  a  master's  certificate  and  the 
third  mate  had  none  at  all.  Captain  Meredith  began  to 
muse  regretfully  upon  the  loss  of  his  chief  officer.  For  al- 
though Mr.  Spokesly  had  omitted  to  mention  it,  the  im- 

i6 


COMMAND  17 

mediate  cause  of  his  promotion  was  the  sudden  death  at  sea 
of  his  predecessor.  That  gnarled  and  taciturn  being,  whose 
round  moon-face  had  relapsed  with  age  to  the  consistency  of 
puckered  pink  parchment,  had  been  for  many  years  "taking 
care  of  himself."  In  that  remote  epoch  when  he  was  young 
it  may  be  doubted  whether  he  had  done  this,  for  he  bore  the 
marks  of  a  life  lived  to  the  very  delirious  verge.  That  was 
long  before  Mr.  Spokesly  had  got  into  short  pants,  however. 
Mr.  McGinnis  took  care  of  himself  day  and  night.  He  had 
achieved  a  miraculous  balance  of  forces  within  his  frame,  a 
balance  which  enabled  him  to  stand  his  watch  on  the  bridge 
and  give  orders  to  the  bo'sun,  but  no  more.  He  would  pass 
with  a  stealthy  quietness  along  the  deck  and  into  his  room, 
and  there  sit,  his  claw-like  hands  on  the  arms  of  his  chair,  his 
emaciated  form  encased  in  a  diamond-patterned  kimono, 
his  pink  jaws  working  noiselessly  on  a  piece  of  some  patent 
chewing  gum,  of  which  he  carried  a  stock.  Sometimes  he 
read  a  page  or  two  of  a  quiet  story,  but  usually  he  switched 
off  the  electric  and  sat  chewing  far  into  the  night.  At  a 
quarter  to  four  one  morning,  the  Asiatic  sailor  who  came  to 
arouse  him  discovered  him  hanging  by  his  arms  to  the  edge 
of  his  bunk,  as  though  crucified,  his  appallingly  thin  limbs 
sprawling  and  exposing  tattooings  of  astonishing  design  and 
colouring,  his  jaw  hanging,  his  sunken  eyes  staring  with  sense- 
less curiosity  at  a  spot  on  the  carpet.  The  Japanese  sailor 
went  back  to  Mr.  Spokesly,  who  was  on  watch  on  the  bridge, 
and  reported  impassively,  "Chief  mate  all  same  one  stiff.'* 
Mr.  Spokesly  was  incredulous,  though  he  knew  from  ex- 
perience the  uncanny  prescience  of  the  Oriental  in  such 
matters.  "What?  Sick.?"  he  inquired  in  a  whisper.  The 
Japanese,  a  diminutive  white  wraith  in  the  profound  gloom  of 
the  bridge,  replied,  "No  sick.  All  same  one  stiff.  No  can 
do."  This  was  his  final  word.  Mr.  Spokesly  hurriedly 
aroused  the  captain,  who  came  out  on  the  bridge  and  told 
them  to  go  down  together.  They  went  down  and  Mr. 
Spokesly  had  a  violent  shock.  He  told  Archy  Bates  after- 
wards he  had  "had  a  turn."  He  did  all  that  a  competent 
oflficer  could  do.     He  spoke  sharply  the  man's  name.     "Mr. 


18  COMMAND 

McGinnis!'*  and  Mr.  McGinnis  continued  to  regard  the  spot 
on  the  carpet  with  intense  curiosity.  He  felt  the  breast,  held 
a  shaving  glass  to  the  lips  of  the  silent  McGinnis,  and  realized 
that  the  Oriental  who  stood  by  the  door,  his  dark  face  im- 
passive and  his  gaze  declined  upon  the  floor,  was  perfectly 
right.  As  Mr.  Spokesly  raised  the  stiffened  arms  the  kimono 
fell  open,  and  he  had  another  violent  shock,  for  Mr.  McGinnis 
had  evidently  been  a  patron  of  the  art  of  tattooing  in  all  its 
branches.  His  arms  and  torso  formed  a  ghastly  triptych  of 
green  and  blue  figures  with  red  eyes.  Contrasted  with  the 
pallor  of  death  the  dreadful  designs  took  on  the  similitude  of 
living  forms.  With  a  movement  of  hasty  horror  Mr.  Spokesly 
laid  the  body  on  the  settee  and  went  away  to  call  Mr.  Chip- 
penham and  the  chief  steward. 

The  conjectures  which  followed  were  most  of  them  beside 
the  mark.  The  fact  was,  intelligence  has  its  limits.  The 
miraculous  balance  of  forces  had  been  in  some  obscure  way 
disturbed,  and  Mr.  McGinnis,  like  the  one-hoss  shay,  had 
simply  crumbled  to  dust  at  the  appointed  time.  Captain 
Meredith  was  sorry,  for  Mr.  McGinnis  had  been  what  is 
known  as  "a  good  mate."  And  Captain  Meredith,  whether 
from  mere  prejudice  or  genuine  conviction,  was  unable  to 
discern  the  makings  of  a  "good  mate"  in  Mr.  Spokesly.  It 
was  almost  miraculous,  he  reflected,  how  the  work  of  the  ship 
had  got  balled  up  since  the  invaluable  McGinnis,  neatly 
sewed  up  in  some  of  his  own  canvas,  had  made  a  hole  in  the 
Mediterranean.  It  should  be  understood  that  Captain  Mere- 
dith was  a  humane  man.  He  was  also  a  seafaring  man. 
The  fact  that  McGinnis  had  been  excommunicated  from  the 
church  of  his  baptism  did  not  deter  Captain  Meredith  from 
reading  the  burial  service  over  him.  And  his  annoyance  at 
seeing  his  new  chief  oflBcer  and  the  steward  **as  thick  as 
thieves,"  as  he  put  it,  was  really  a  humane  feeling.  He  had 
served  in  ships  where  the  commander  had  been  utterly  at  the 
mercy  of  some  contemptible  dish-washer  who  had  wormed 
himself  into  his  superior's  confidence,  acting  perhaps  as  a 
go-between  in  some  shady  deal.  He  had  seen  a  veteran 
shijy-master,  a  man  of  fine  presence  and  like  no  one  so  much 


COMMAND  19 

as  some  retired  colonel  of  guards,  running  ignominiously  along 
the  quay  to  fetch  back  a  dirty  little  half-breed  steward,  who 
had  seen  fit  to  take  offence  and  who  knew  too  much.  Cap- 
tain Meredith  had  seen  these  things,  and  though  he  kept  them 
locked  up  in  his  own  breast  he  did  not  forget  them.  He  was 
perfectly  well  aware  of  the  precarious  hold  most  of  us  have 
upon  honour.  He  knew  that  a  certain  austerity  of  demeanour 
was  the  only  practicable  armour  against  many  temptations. 
But  of  course  Captain  Meredith  couldn't  be  expected  to 
understand  Mr.  Spokesly's  state  of  mind.  Mr.  Spokesly 
didn't  understand  it  himself.  It  was  scarcely  sufficient  to 
say  that  his  promotion  had  carried  him  away.  Far  from  it. 
He  regarded  this  step  as  merely  a  start.  What  had  inspired 
him  at  the  moment  to  "stand  up  to  the  Old  Man"  was  nothing 
less  than  a  wave  of  genuine  emotion.  You  see,  he  really 
liked  Archy  Bates  so  far  as  he  knew  him  then.  They  were 
real  chums,  telling  each  other  their  grievances  and  sharing  a 
singularly  identical  opinion  of  the  Old  Man's  fitness  for  his 
job.  There  are  more  unions  of  souls  in  this  world  than  ma- 
terialists would  like  us  to  believe.  What  Captain  Meredith 
mistook  for  harsh  and  ill-timed  impudence  was  really  a  thick- 
ness of  utterance  and  a  sudden  vision  of  injustice.  Once 
done,  and  the  Old  Man  reduced  to  an  amazed  silence,  the  in- 
cident took  in  Mr.  Spokesly's  mind  a  significance  so  tremen- 
dous that  he  hardly  knew  what  to  think.  He  had  "tackled 
the  Old  Man  " !  He  had  broken  the  spell  of  a  lifetime  of  si- 
lent obsequiousness  to  a  silly  convention.  After  all  .  .  . 
And,  moreover,  it  took  will  power  to  do  it.  He  was  improv- 
ing. The  London  School  of  Mnemonics  had  achieved  an- 
other miracle.  He  went  over  it  all  again  in  Archy  Bates's 
cabin,  Archy's  ear  close  to  his  mouth,  door  shut,  curtains 
folded  across  the  window.  You  never  can  tell  who's  listening 
on  a  ship.  .  .  .  "I  turns  an'  says  to  him,  *Look  here, 
Captain'  .  .  ."  Archy  listening  with  intensity,  his  shoul- 
ders hunched,  his  opaque,  agate-like  eyes  glittering  on  each 
side  of  his  long  sharp  nose,  while  his  thumb  and  forefinger 
slowly  and  repeatedly  thrust  back  his  pomatumed  and  waxed 
moustache  from  his  lips,  and  breathing  "Jus'  fancy!     .     .    . 


20  COMMAND 

And  you  told  him  that?  .  .  .  Goo' Lord!  .  .  .  Well, 
I  always  knew  'e  'ad  no  use  for  me.  .  .  ."  Mr.  Spokesly 
pulled  Archy  Bates  close  up  to  him  so  that  his  lips  were  ac- 
tually funnelled  in  the  other's  ear  and  breathed  back  :* '  Take  it 
from  me,  Archy,  he  ain't  fit  for  his  job  .'" 

Archy  Bates  had  risen,  just  then,  to  get  the  corkscrew.  He 
was  profoundly  moved,  and  actually  found  himself  trying  to 
open  a  bottle  of  whiskey  with  a  button-hook.  He  showed 
his  idiocy  to  Mr.  Spokesly.  "Jus'  fancy.  I  don't  know 
what  I'm  doin',  straight."  And  they  both  laughed.  But  he 
was  profoundly  moved.  He  was  preoccupied  with  the 
possible  developments  of  this  tremendous  affair.  Mr. 
Spokesly,  by  virtue  of  that  last  insane  whisper,  had  of 
course  delivered  himself  over,  body,  soul,  and  spirit,  to  the 
steward,  but  Mr.  Spokesly  was  a  friend  of  his.  He  had  quite 
other  plans  for  Mr.  Spokesly.  He  stared  harder  than  the  job 
warranted  as  he  put  the  bottle  between  his  knees  and  hauled 
on  the  corkscrew.  Pop!  They  drank,  and  the  act  was  as 
a  seal  on  a  secret  compact. 

And  it  was  that — a  compact  so  secret  that  even  they,  the 
parties  to  it,  were  scarcely  conscious  of  the  pledge.  But  as 
the  days  passed,  days  of  hasty  clandestine  comparing  of 
grievances  in  each  other's  rooms,  days  of  whispering  apart, 
days  followed  by  nights  of  companionship  ashore,  each  real- 
ized how  necessary  was  the  other  to  his  full  appreciation  of 
life.  Archy  Bates  found  Mr.  Spokesly  a  tower  of  strength 
and  a  house  of  defence.  If  any  complaint  sounded  in  his 
presence  concerning  stores,  Mr.  Spokesly  was  silent  for  a 
space  and  then  walked  away.  Only  that  vulgar  third  en- 
gineer was  insensible  to  the  superb  reproof.  "There  goes  the 
flunkey's  runner,"  he  remarked,  in  execrable  taste,  and  Mr. 
Spokesly  was  obliged  to  ignore  him.  On  the  other  hand, 
Mr.  Spokesly  found  in  Archy  Bates  a  sympathetic  soul,  a  wit 
that  jumped  with  his  own  and  understood  without  tedious 
circumlocution  "how  he  felt  about  it."  More  precious  than 
rubies  is  a  friend  who  understands  how  you  feel  about  it. 
He  found  in  Archy  a  gentleman  who  was  master  of  what  was 
to  Mr.  Spokesly  an  incredible  quantity  of  ready  cash.     At 


COMMAND  21 

first  Mr.  Spokesly  had  apologetically  borrowed  "half  a  quid 
till  to-morrow,  being  short  somehow,"  and  Archy  had  scorned 
to  split  a  sovereign.  In  some  way  only  partially  understood 
by  Mr.  Spokesly  as  yet,  certain  eddies  of  the  vast  stream  of 
gold  and  paper  which  was  turning  the  wheels  of  the  war 
swirled  into  the  pockets  of  Archy  Bates.  He  had  it  to  burn, 
as  they  say.  It  was  bewildering  in  its  variety.  British, 
American,  French,  Italian,  Greek,  Egyptian,  and  Japanese 
notes  were  rolled  into  one  inexhaustible  wad.  More  bewil- 
dering even  than  this  was  Archy  Bates's  uncanny  command 
of  gold.  It  was  extraordinary  how  this  impressed  Mr. 
Spokesly.  At  a  time  when  sovereigns  and  eagles  and  napo- 
leons had  practically  vanished  from  the  pockets  of  the  private 
citizen,  Archy  Bates  had  bags  of  them.  And  like  his  paper 
currency,  it  was  of  all  nations.  Ten-rouble  Russian  pieces, 
twenty-drachma  Greek  pieces,  Australian  sovereigns,  and 
massive  Indian  medals  worth  twenty  dollars  each,  chinked 
and  jingled  against  the  homelier  coinage  of  France  and  Eng- 
land. "Business,  my  boy,  business!"  he  would  explain  with 
a  snigger  when  he  met  Mr.  Spokesly 's  rapt  gaze  of  amaze- 
ment. Very  good  business,  too,  the  latter  thought,  and  sighed. 
But  there  was  one  point  about  Archy  which  distinguished  him 
from  many  owners  of  gold.  He  spent  it.  There  lay  the 
magic  of  his  power  over  Mr.  Spokesly's  mesmerized  soul. 
He  spent  it.  Mr.  Spokesly  saw  him  and  helped  him  spend  it. 
Those  princely  disbursements  night  after  night  in  Alexandria 
postulated  some  source  of  supply.  And  night  after  night 
Mr.  Spokesly,  pleasantly  jingled  with  highballs  and  feminine 
society,  felt  himself  being  drawn  nearer  and  nearer  the  mys- 
terious source  from  which  gushed  that  cosmopolitan  torrent 
of  money.  Mr.  Spokesly  was  in  the  right  mood  for  the  reve- 
lation. He  was  serious.  He  was  a  practical  man.  He 
needed  no  London  School  of  Mnemonics  to  teach  him  to  cul- 
tivate a  man  with  plenty  of  money.  When  he  and  Archy 
Bates  had  walked  quickly  away  from  the  ship  and  passed  the 
guard  at  Number  Six  Gate,  they  could  scarcely  be  recognized 
by  one  who  had  seen  them  an  hour  before,  Mr.  Spokesly  si- 
lently munching  his  dinner  under  the  Old  Man's  frown. 


22  COMMAND 

Archy  in  his  pantry,  encased  in  a  huge  white  apron,  bending 
his  sharp  nose  over  the  steaming  dishes,  and  communicating 
in  violent  pantomime  with  the  saloon  waiter. 

Now  they  stood  side  by  side,  brothers,  magnificently  su- 
perior to  all  the  world.  A  dingy  carriage  rattled  up  and 
Archy  waved  it  away  impatiently.  Another,  with  two  horses 
and  rubber  tires,  was  hailed  and  engaged.  "Might  as  well 
do  the  thing  well,"  said  Archy,  and  Mr.  Spokesly  agreed  in 
every  fibre  of  his  soul.  And  it  was  the  same  with  everything 
else.  "My  motto  is,"  said  Archy,  "everything  of  the  best, 
eh?  Can't  go  far  wrong  then.  He-he!"  The  third  engi- 
neer, vulgarian  that  he  was,  would  have  laughed  a  shrill,  de- 
risive cackle  had  he  heard  that  speech.  The  third  engineer 
was  under  the  illusion  that  only  the  virtuous  have  ideals. 
He  was  wrong.  Archy  Bates's  profession  of  faith  was  sin- 
cere and  genuine.  He  had  an  instinct  for  what  he  called  the 
best,  which  was  the  most  expensive.  What  else  could  be  the 
best?  A  love  of  elegance  and  refinement  was  very  widespread 
in  those  days  of  high  wages  and  excessive  profits.  Archy 's 
wife  (for  he  had  a  wife  and  three  children  in  a  suburb  of 
Liverpool)  was  rapidly  filling  her  instalment-purchased  home 
with  costly  furniture.  Only  a  month  ago  a  grand  piano  had 
been  put  in,  and  she  had  had  the  dining-room  suite  re- 
upholstered  in  real  pigskin.  Mr.  Spokesly  knew  all  this  and 
it  almost  unmanned  him  to  think  that  he  was  on  the  way  to 
this  eldorado.  One  night,  soon  after  their  arrival  in  Alexan- 
dria, Archy  had  hinted  there  was  no  reason  why  he,  Mr. 
Spokesly,  shouldn't  be  "in  it,"  too.  This  was  late  in  the 
evening,  when  they  were  seated  on  a  balcony  high  above  the 
glitter  and  noise  of  the  Boulevard  Ramleh,  a  balcony  belong- 
ing to  a  house  of  fair  but  expensive  reception,  of  which  Archy 
was  a  munificent  patron.  Archy,  after  two  bottles  of  whis- 
key, had  become  confidential.  He  had  hinted  that  his 
friend  Reggie  should  be  "put  next"  the  business  which 
produced  such  amazing  returns.  Reggie  had  waited  to  hear 
more  but,  with  amusing  inconsequence,  Archy  had  changed 
the  subject,  relapsed  indeed  into  a  tantalizing  dalliance  with 
a  lady  friend. 


COMMAND  23 

But  to-night,  in  sober  earnest,  for  Archy  had  had  little 
besides  a  bottle  of  gin  since  rising  in  the  morning,  he  proposed 
that  they  should  join  a  business  friend  of  his,  and  have  a 
quiet  little  dinner  somewhere.  Mr.  Spokesly  was  all  eyes, 
all  ears,  all  intelligent  receptiveness.  He  enquired  who  the 
business  friend  might  be,  and  Archy,  who  had  his  own  en- 
thusiasms, let  himseK  go.  His  friend.  Jack  Miller,  had  been 
out  there  for  years.  With  Swingles,  the  ship-chandlers. 
Occupied,  Archy  surmised,  a  very  high  position  there.  Had 
worked  himself  up.  Plenty  of  skippers  did  business  with 
Swingles  simply  because  Jack  was  there.  If  he  liked  to  leave, 
Archy  hadn't  any  doubt  he'd  take  a  good  half  of  Swingles' 
business  with  him.  Knew  all  the  languages,  French,  Greek, 
Arabic,  and  so  on.  Kept  his  own  hours,  went  in  and  out  as 
he  liked.     Archy  only  wished  he  had  Jack  Miller's  job ! 

Mr.  Spokesly  listened  greedily.  As  they  debouched  upon 
the  great  Place  Mohammed  Aly,  with  its  myriads  of  lights 
and  sounds,  its  illuminated  Arabic  night  signs,  its  cracking  of 
whips  and  tinkling  of  bells  and  glasses,  its  gorgeous,  tessellated 
platoons  of  cafe  tables,  he  took  a  deep  breath.  He  felt  he 
was  upon  the  threshold  of  a  larger  life,  inhaling  a  more  in- 
vigorating air.  It  seemed  to  him  he  was  about  to  quit  the 
dreary  humdrum  world  of  watch-keeping  and  monthly  wages 
for  a  region  where  dwelt  those  happy  beings  who  had  no  fixed 
hours,  who  made  money,  who  had  it  "to  burn,"  as  they  say. 

And  Jack  Miller,  whom  they  met  that  night  and  many 
nights  after,  was  a  magnificent  accessory  of  the  illusion.  He 
was  a  dapper  little  man  in  fashionable  clothes,  a  runner  for  a 
local  ship-chandler,  who  introduced  them  to  half-a-dozen 
ship-captains  of  a  certain  type,  and  together  they  went  round 
the  vast  tenderloin  district  of  the  city.  Mr.  Spokesly  was 
conscious  of  a  grand  exaltation  during  the  day  when  he  re- 
called his  nightly  association  with  these  gentlemen.  There 
were  others,  dark-skinned  Greeks  and  Levantines  in  long- 
tasselled  fezes,  who  joined  them  in  their  pursuit  of  pleasure 
in  the  great  blocks  of  buildings  behind  the  Boulevard  Ramleh 
and  their  jaunts,  in  taxicabs,  to  San  Stefano.  They  were,  as 
Archy  put  it,  over  whiskey  and  soda  in  his  cabin,  gentlemen 


24  COMMAND 

worth  knowing,  men  with  property  and  businesses.  And  it 
was  one  of  these,  one  evening  on  the  balcony  of  the  Casino  at 
San  Stefano,  who  mentioned  casually  that  he  often  did  busi- 
ness with  Saloniki  and  that  if  Mr.  Spokesly  ever  had  any 
little  things  to  dispose  of  on  his  return,  he  would  be  glad  to 
make  him  an  offer,  privately,  of  course.  He  often  did  this 
with  Mr.  Bates,  he  added,  to  their  mutual  satisfaction.  Mr. 
Spokesly  was  charmed. 

And  Captain  Meredith,  walking  the  upper  bridge  and  see- 
ing a  good  deal  more  than  either  Mr.  Spokesly  or  Mr.  Bates 
imagined,  wondered  how  it  would  all  end.  Indeed,  Captain 
Meredith  did  a  good  deal  of  wondering  in  those  days.  He 
saw  the  wages  going  steadily  up  and  up,  and  discipline  and 
efficiency  going,  quite  as  steadily,  down  and  down.  Here 
was  this  young  sprig  Chippenham,  his  acting  second  officer, 
a  boy  of  nineteen  with  no  license  and  no  experience,  pertly 
demanding  more  money.  Captain  Meredith  recalled  his 
own  austere  apprenticeship  in  sail,  his  still  more  austere 
gruelling  as  junior  officer  in  tramps,  the  mean  accommoda- 
tion, the  chill  penury,  the  struggle  to  keep  employed,  and  he 
smiled  grimly.  He  had  his  own  private  views  of  the  glory  of 
war;  but  apart  from  this,  he  wondered  greatly  what  the  final 
upshot  of  it  all  would  be  for  the  Merchant  Service  in  general 
and  Mr.  Spokesly  in  particular.  For  he  could  not  help  re- 
garding his  chief  officer  as  a  brother  of  the  craft.  He  himself 
had  received  no  illumination  from  the  exponents  of  modern 
thought.  He  had  never  been  impressed  by  the  advertise- 
ments of  the  London  School  of  Mnemonics,  for  example. 
He  was  so  old-fashioned  as  to  imagine  that  to  get  on,  a  man 
must  work  hard,  study  hard,  live  hard,  and  stand  by  for  the 
chance  to  come.  Mr.  Spokesly,  he  knew  quite  well,  had  been 
through  the  same  mill  as  himself,  only  some  ten  years  or  so 
later.  He  regarded  him,  therefore,  as  he  could  never  regard 
Mr.  Chippenham,  for  example,  who  had  never  been  in  sail 
and  who  didn't  know  an  oxter-plate  from  an  orlop-beam. 
As  far  as  the  natural  shyness  and  taciturnity  of  Englishmen 
would  allow  him,  he  was  anxious  for  Mr.  Spokesly  to  do  well. 
The  man  was  singularly  fortunate,  in  his  opinion,  to  be  chief 


COMMAND  25 

mate  so  soon.  In  nine  or  ten  years,  perhaps,  he  would  have 
the  experience  to  warrant  the  owners'  giving  him  a  command. 
Provided,  of  course,  that  he  stuck  to  his  business  and  took 
an  interest  in  the  fortunes  of  the  firm.  It  will  be  seen  from 
this  that  Captain  Meredith  was  a  hopeless  conservative  and 
reactionary.  One  of  his  brother-captains  whom  he  met  at 
dinner  ashore  one  evening  actually  told  him  so.  "Why," 
said  this  gentleman  as  he  held  a  match  to  Captain  Mere- 
dith's cigar,  "why,  my  chief  oflScer  told  me  to  my  face  the 
other  day  that  there  was  nothing  in  experience  nowadays. 
One  man  was  as  good  as  another,  he  said,  so  long  as  he  had  his 
master's  ticket.  Yes!  A  fact!"  Captain  Meredith  was 
aware,  too,  that  his  ideas  concerning  conscientious  achieve- 
ment and  enthusiasm  for  one's  employers  were  equally  ar- 
chaic. The  young  men  of  to-day  seemed  to  regard  their 
jobs  with  dislike  and  their  employers  with  suspicion.  Their 
sole  obsession  seemed  to  be  money.  He  had  had  pointed  out 
to  him  an  intoxicated  youth  who  was  causing  a  disturbance 
in  a  hotel  bar,  a  youth  going  out  East  to  a  ship  as  third  oflS- 
cer at  two  hundred  dollars  a  month,  they  said.  And  the  tale 
was  received  by  every  junior  oflGicer  in  the  harbour  with 
hushed  awe,  although  it  was  obvious  that  the  object  of  their 
envy  w^ould  probably  be  laid  aside  with  delirium  tremens 
before  he  could  reach  his  billet.  Captain  Meredith  noticed, 
too,  that  men  who  were  engrossed  in  their  work  were  rated 
"queer"  and  as  back  numbers.  Even  among  captains  he 
sensed  a  reluctance  to  discuss  a  professional  problem.  The 
third  engineer,  a  skilled  mechanic  with  a  tongue  like  a  rasp, 
and  the  second,  a  patient  old  dobbin  who  ought  to  have  been 
promoted  long  ago,  were  examples  of  an  older  school,  but 
the  good  captain  was  hardly  in  a  position  to  appraise  them 
professionally. 

It  was  different  with  Mr.  Spokesly.  If  anything  hap- 
pened to  Captain  Meredith  himself,  a  sudden  weight  of  re- 
sponsibility would  roll  upon  Mr.  Spokesly  that  would,  in  the 
captain's  opinion,  crush  him.  For  it  must  be  confessed  that 
licenses,  diplomas,  certificates,  or  whatever  you  call  your 
engraved  warrants  to  ply  your  trade,  are  no  guarantee  of 


26  COMMAND 

character  and  nerve.  Nor  does  efficiency  in  a  subordinate 
capacity  imply  success  in  command.  Just  as  some  men  are 
stormy  and  intractable  nuisances  until  they  reach  the  top, 
when  they  immediately  assume  a  mysterious  and  impregna- 
ble composure,  so  others  deliberately  avoid  rising  above  a 
comfortable  mediocrity,  conscious  of  their  own  limitations 
and  well  satisfied  that  some  other  human  soul  should  endure 
the  pangs  of  the  supreme  decision.  Others  there  are,  and 
Captain  Meredith  believed  Mr.  Spokesly  was  one  of  them, 
who  lack  knowledge  of  themselves,  and  who  have  not  suffi- 
cient intelligence  either  to  carry  the  burden  or  to  refuse  it. 
This,  of  course,  was  not  Mr.  Spokesly 's  opinion  as  time  went 
on.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it 
was  no  use  being  a  smart  officer  "if  the  captain  wouldn't 
back  a  man  up.*'  He  told  Archy  Bates  that  "the  Old  Man 
was  doing  all  he  knew  to  do  him  dirty."  And  Archy  riposted 
at  once  with  evidence  that  he  himself  was  the  victim  of  a 
foul  conspiracy  between  the  Captain  and  the  crew  over  the 
grub.  Mr.  Spokesly  would  go  out  on  deck  from  these  pow- 
wows feeling  very  happy,  for  Archy  never  failed  to  open  a 
bottle.  Mr.  Spokesly  would  sway  a  little  as  he  walked  for- 
ward to  see  how  the  work  was  going  on  in  the  forehold.  The 
Tanganyika,  having  discharged  most  of  her  cargo,  was  now 
reloading  a  great  deal  of  it  in  obedience  to  orders  from  certain 
invisible  but  omnipotent  beings  higher  up.  He  would  sway 
a  little,  and  hold  on  to  the  hatch  coaming,  looking  down  upon 
the  toilers  below  with  an  air  of  profound  abstraction.  Then 
he  would  move  gently  until  he  could  raise  his  eyes  and  sweep 
a  casual  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  bridge.  Sometimes  he 
would  see  the  Old  Man's  head  as  he  strode  to  and  fro.  On 
one  occasion  he  "caught  'im  at  it,"  as  he  told  Archy.  "Yes, 
he  was  spying  on  me.  Watching  me.  See  his  game?  I  tell 
you,  Archy,  it  makes  a  man  sick.  Fancy  havin'  to  work  un- 
der a  man  Hke  that.  Watchin'  me.  Now  he'll  write  home 
to  the  owners  in  his  confidential  report.  Well,  let  him. 
Thanks  to  you,  I  got  more  than  one  egg  in  the  basket.  Some- 
times, I  feel  inclined  to  go  and  demand  my  discharge.  I 
would,  only  it's  war  time.     Got  to  carry  on  in  war  time." 


COMMAND  27 

Archy  Bates  nodded  over  his  glass  and  dipped  his  long 
sharp  nose  into  it  before  making  an  audible  reply.  "Me, 
too!"  he  said,  setting  the  glass  down  empty.  "Me,  too!  K 
it  wasn't  for  the  war  and  everybody  having  to  do  their  bit, 
I'd  swallow  the  anchor  to-morrow." 

And  they  sat  for  a  moment  in  silence,  each  honestly  believ- 
ing the  other,  and  thinking  poignantly  of  home.  Over  the 
steward's  bunk,  stuffed  into  a  corner  of  the  frame  that  en- 
closed his  wife's  portrait,  was  a  photograph  of  a  girl,  stark 
naked  save  for  a  wrist  watch  and  a  feather  in  her  black  hair, 
sitting  on  Archy's  knee.  From  behind  this  Mrs.  Bates's  thin 
face  and  flat  bosom  peeped  out,  and  her  eyes  seemed  to  be 
fixed  thoughtfully  upon  the  two  exiled  patriots  who  sat  with 
uplifted  glasses  before  her. 

And  on  one  occasion,  Mr.  Spokesly,  who  was  spending  the 
evening  on  board  because  steam  had  been  raised  for  sailing, 
and  because  the  owners  had  a  tyrannical  rule  to  that  effect — 
Mr.  Spokesly  had  a  dream.  He  confessed  to  Archy  that  in 
common  honesty  he  didn't  know  whether  he  was  awake  or 
asleep.  A  sort  of  vision !  He  was  lying  on  his  bunk  with  one 
of  the  manuals  of  the  London  School  of  Mnemonics  in  his 
hand  which  he  was,  he  imagined,  reading.  It  was  an  essay 
on  "Concentration,"  and  perhaps  his  thoughts  had  wandered 
a  bit.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  as  he  lay  there,  in  among  his 
thoughts  slipped  a  new  and  alien  impression  that  there  was 
somebody  in  the  room.  He  didn't  turn  his  head,  but  just  lay 
on  in  contemplation  of  this  possibility.  Perhaps  he  had  half- 
closed  his  eyes,  for  the  instructions  how  to  concentrate  in- 
cluded a  note  that  the  brain  worked  better  if  you  lay 
down  and  shut  out  the  distracting  phenomena  of  existence. 
Everything  was  soft  and  hazy  at  the  time.  The  notion  that 
someone  was  there  and  yet  not  there  intrigued  him.  And 
even  a  physical  change,  a  faint  movement  of  the  air  caused  by 
somebody  altering  his  position  in  space,  a  faint  access  of 
minute  sounds  entering  by  a  cleared  doorway,  did  not  rouse 
his  suspicions.  On  the  contrary,  he  must  have  dozed,  he  told 
Archy  solemnly.  For  the  next  thing  he  remembered  with 
any  approach  to  coherence  was  a  figure  with  its  back  to  him. 


28  COMMAND 

standing  by  the  toilet  shelf,  holding  up  an  empty  glass  and 
smelling  it.  ...  A  figure  he  knew.  Yes,  he  nodded 
to  Archy,  who  clicked  his  teeth  and  threw  up  his  head,  it  was 
the  Old  Man.  And  as  swiftly  as  it  had  come,  it  was  gone. 
Mr.  Spokesly  found  himself  up  on  one  elbow,  pressing  thumb 
and  forefinger  into  his  eyes,  and  then  peering  from  the  bright- 
ness of  the  light  above  his  head  into  the  rose-shaded  twilight 
of  the  cabin.  There  was  no  one  there.  Everything  was  just 
the  same.  The  glass  was  still  there  on  the  mahogany  shelf, 
exactly  as  he  had  left  it  after  taking  a  tot  of  whiskey  before 
lying  down.  Now  wasn't  that  a  curious  experience,  he  de- 
manded.? 

But  Archy  was  no  votary  of  psychic  phenomena.  He 
waved  everything  of  that  sort  clean  out  of  existence.  What 
time  was  it?  Quarter-past  eight .^^  Why,  he  saw  the  Old 
Man  himself  sneaking  up  the  saloon  stairs  to  the  chart-room 
about  that  time.  Of  course  it  was  the  Old  Man.  Just  the 
sort  of  game  he  would  be  up  to.  It  was  revolting.  Only  the 
other  day  he  had  given  orders  for  his  own  supply  of  spirits  to 
be  put  in  his  bedroom  instead  of  leaving  it  in  Archy 's  charge. 
Never  said  a  word  to  him^  mind  you!  Told  the  second 
steward  to  tell  the  chief  steward.  See  the  game?  Couldn't 
speak  out  like  a  man  and  say  he'd  missed  a  bottle  or  so. 
Justice?  There  is  no  such  thing  as  justice  when  you  work  for 
an  underhand,  sneaking,  spying     .     .     . 

Archy  Bates  had  stopped  short  in  his  catalogue  of  the 
captain's  deformities  as  though  he  had  been  suddenly 
throttled.  A  bell  was  buzzing  in  the  pantry.  They  looked 
at  each  other.  Archy  put  down  his  glass,  listened  for  a  mo- 
ment, hissed  venomously,  "That's  him!"  and  slipped  out. 
Mr.  Spokesly  sat  still  while  his  friend  was  away  answering  the 
summons,  and  nursed  the  rage  in  his  heart  to  a  dull  glow. 
At  times  it  died  out  and  he  shivered  as  before  a  blackened  fire, 
the  dead  ashes  of  a  moody  disgust  of  life.  One  of  the  trage- 
dies of  mediocrity  is  the  confused  nature  of  our  emotions. 
We  are  like  cracked  bells,  goodly  enough  in  outward  form  and 
fashion,  but  we  don't  ring  true.  Our  intelligence  shows  us 
many  things  about  ourselves  but  fails  to  evoke  a  master 


COMMAND  29 

passion.  In  Mr.  Spokesly's  case,  his  great  desire  to  have 
riches  did  not  obscure  from  his  gaze  the  austere  beauties  of 
rectitude  and  the  slow  climb  to  an  honourable  command. 
Neither  did  it  narrow  down  his  interests  to  the  sordid  goal  to 
which  he  aspired.  The  boding  apprehension  which  was  rising 
like  a  black  cloud  at  the  back  of  his  mind,  that  he  was  neglect- 
ing his  work,  only  reflected  and  magnified  the  blaze  of  his 
resentment.  What  encouragement  had  he,  he  would  like  to 
know.  Here  he  was,  slaving  away,  and  no  satisfaction. 
Nothing  he  did  was  right.  Spied  on!  Ignored!  Treated 
like  a  dog!  Well,  he  would  see.  If  this  little  business  of 
Archy's  came  off,  he  would  see  if  he  was  going  to  be  trodden 
on  by  any  shipmaster.     Archy.     .     .     . 

For  a  moment  the  clear  vision  of  Archy  obsequiously  wait- 
ing on  the  captain,  getting  him  some  hot  water  perhaps,  or 
laying  out  a  fresh  suit  of  underwear,  troubled  the  darkness  of 
Mr.  Spokesly's  ruminations.  A  clear  vision,  such  as  even  the 
mediocre  have  at  times.  And  close  to  it,  as  though  another 
miniature  in  another  oval  frame,  a  sharp,  clear-cut  memory 
of  Ada  Rivers  looking  up  at  him  with  gray  adoring  eyes,  the 
proud  tremble  of  her  passionate  mouth,  the  curve  of  her 
white  throat.     .     .     . 

Mr.  Spokesly  rose  to  his  feet  and  he  caught  sight  of  the 
naked  girl  sitting  on  Archy's  knee,  and  of  the  bourgeois  little 
face  looking  out  from  behind  it.  Archy's  wife!  A  long 
dizzy  wave  of  revulsion  made  Mr.  Spokesly  feel  momentarily 
faint  and  he  clutched  the  edge  of  the  bunk  board.  For  a 
moment  he  stood,  slack-mouthed  and  moody-eyed,  gazing 
at  the  photographs.  Then  he  turned  away  and  crept  softly 
along  the  corridor. 

Archy  was  surprised,  on  his  return,  to  find  him  gone. 


CHAPTER  III 

MUCH  of  the  diversity  and  nearly  all  the  bitterness  of 
our  lives  are  due  to  the  fact  that  only  rarely  do  we 
encounter  our  exact  contemporaries.  In  any  sphere 
where  all  start  at  a  prescribed  age,  as  in  great  universities 
and  public  services,  there  is  a  tendency  to  become  standard- 
ized, to  be  only  one  example  of  a  prevalent  type.  Ambition 
is  coordinated,  jealousy  is  neutralized;  and  the  hot  lava-flow 
of  individualist  passion  cools  and  hardens  to  an  admirable 
solidity  and  composure.  One's  exact  contemporaries  are 
around  in  throngs.  One  has  no  misgivings,  no  heartburn,  no 
exasperation  with  fate.  The  fortunate  being  whose  destiny 
lies  this  way  takes  on  the  gravity,  the  immobility,  and  the 
polish  of  an  antique  statue.  The  common  people  pass  him 
as  they  pass  the  Elgin  marbles — without  emotion;  but  they 
are  aware  subconsciously  of  the  cold  pure  beauty  of  outline, 
the  absolute  fidelity  to  type,  which  is  the  melancholy  justifi- 
cation of  his  existence. 

But  the  common  people  themselves  are  not  like  that. 
They  quit  their  exact  contemporaries  at  school  and  thence- 
forth are  out  upon  the  sea  of  life  with  men  of  all  ages  and 
breedings  and  nationalities  around  them  and  pressing  them 
hard.  They  act  and  are  reacted  upon.  Most  of  them  nurse 
a  secret  grievance.  Very  few  of  them  have  any  code  of 
honour  beyond  law  and  decency.  They  are  very  largely 
needy  adventurers,  living  by  their  wits,  and  are  ready  to  pay 
money  to  those  who  profess  to  show  them  how  they  can  in- 
crease their  incomes,  or  obtain  a  pension,  or  "better  their 
positions,"  or  cure  themselves  of  the  innumerable  physical 
disabilities  which  their  fatuous  ignorance  and  indolence  have 
brought  upon  them.  They  love  to  decipher  word  compe- 
titions, football  competitions,  racing  competitions.     They 

30 


COMMAND  31 

have   the  high-binder's  passion  for  getting  something  for 
nothing,  his  dislike  to  real  work.     And  this  lack  of  contempo- 
rary associates,  this  rough-and-tumble  aspect  of  the  world, 
induces  them  to  regard  their  vices  as  virtues  and  themselves 
as  oppressed  helots  struggling  under  the  iron  heels  of  those 
whom  mere  luck  and  cunning  have  placed  in  authority  over 
them.     The  London  School  of  Mnemonics  was  making  a 
hundred  thousand  pounds  a  year  net  profit  out  of  these  people 
in  England  alone.     Even  the  grim  witticism  of  the  company 
promoter,  that  there  is  *'a  sucker  born  every  minute,"  seems 
inadequate  to  account  for  so  monstrous  a  simplicity  of  soul. 
The  fact  is,  the  very  boldness  of  the  trick  rendered  it  easy. 
You  paid  your  guinea,  and  in  due  course,  in  due  secrecy,  and 
under  duly  sworn  promises  to  divulge  no  hint  of  their  con- 
tents to  a  living  soul,  you  received  a  number  of  refined-looking 
pamphlets  containing  a  couple  of  thousand  words  each.     You 
thrilled  as  you  joined  in  the  game.     Even  Captain  Meredith, 
sitting  in  his  chart  room  and  looking  through  Number  Four, 
which  Mr.  Spokesly  had  inadvertently  left  on  the  table,  was 
tickled  by  the  subtle  atmosphere  of  the  style.     This,  he 
divined,  was  the  newly  discovered  rapid-transit  route  to  the 
Fortunate  Isles,  and  his  expression  hardened  to  rigid  at- 
tention as  his  eye  fell  on  the  testimony  of  "a  ship's  oflScer." 
This  gentleman  had  risen  from  the  humble  position  of  fourth 
officer  to  the  command  "of  one  of  our  largest  liners"  in  the 
miraculously  brief  period  of  eighteen  months,  and  ascribed 
this  success  entirely  to  the  lessons  of  the  London  School  of 
Mnemonics.     Captain  Meredith  felt  he  would  like  to  have  a 
talk  with  this  person;  but  his  mind  became  preoccupied  with 
another  aspect  of  the  case.     Here,  he  felt,  lay  the  explanation 
of  a  good  deal  of  Mr.  Spokesly's  recent  behaviour.     Captain 
Meredith  was  fully  aware  of  the  perilous  nature  of  an  un- 
married man's  life  between  thirty  and  forty.     He  himself  had 
married  at  thirty-four,  having  been  frankly  terrified  by  the 
spiritual  difficulties  which  he  beheld  surrounding  a  continued 
celibacy  when  combined  with  a  life  of  responsible  command 
at  sea.     And  as  he  sat  back  on  the  settee  of  his  chart-room 
and  looked  out  over  the  top  of  Pamphlet  Number  Four  at  the 


32  COMMAND 

steel-blue  waters  of  the  Mediterranean,  he  became  dimly 
aware  of  Mr.  Spokesly's  condition.  He  could  not  have  set 
down  in  ordered  phrases  the  conclusions  at  which  he  was 
arriving;  a  ship's  captain  in  time  of  war  has  not  the  leisure 
to  reduce  psychological  phenomena  to  their  ultimate  first 
principles;  but  he  was  not  far  wrong  in  muttering,  inaudibly, 
that  "the  man  was  rattled.*'  It  was  this  tendency  to  try  and 
understand  his  officers  which  lay  at  the  back  of  his  leniency 
towards  Mr.  Spokesly,  a  leniency  which  Mr.  Spokesly  him- 
self, in  later,  saner  moments,  found  it  difficult  to  comprehend. 

Mr.  Spokesly  had  "pulled  himself  together,"  as  he  ex- 
pressed it,  when  they  went  to  sea.  Archy  Bates  tacitly  re- 
tired into  the  background.  Archy  himself  was  fully  aware 
that  the  bosom  friendliness  of  the  days  and  nights  in  harbour 
could  not  continue  at  sea,  and  Mr.  Spokesly  ceased  to  share 
the  never-ending  refreshment  without  which  Archy  could 
no  longer  support  existence.  Mr.  Spokesly  felt  better  at 
once,  for  alcohol  had  no  real  hold  upon  his  system.  He 
toiled  laboriously  through  the  astonishing  physical  exercises 
which  the  London  School  of  Mnemonics  artfully  suggested 
were  an  aid  to  mental  improvement.  He  practised  Con- 
centration, Observation,  and  something  the  pamphlets  called 
Intensive  Excogitation,  which  nearly  made  him  cross-eyed. 
Incidentally,  he  gathered  incongruous  scraps  of  information 
about  Alcibiades,  Erasmus,  Savonarola,  Nostradamus,  Armi- 
nius  Vdmbery,  and  Doctor  Johnson.  It  was  while  he  was 
busy  carrying  out  their  instructions  for  accurate  observation, 
that  Captain  Meredith  asked  him,  calmly  enough,  if  he  had 
noticed  that  the  binnacle  of  Number  Two  lifeboat  was 
smashed  and  useless.  Mr.  Spokesly  assumed  a  mulish  ex- 
pression and  said.  No,  he  hadn't.  Well,  in  future,  he  was  to 
have  the  boats  not  only  made  ready,  but  kept  ready,  quite 
ready,  all  the  time.  Mr.  Spokesly,  looking  still  more  mulish, 
said  he'd  attend  to  it. 

With  the  gimcrack  little  sheet  copper  binnacle  in  his  hand, 
Mr.  Spokesly  made  his  way  to  the  chief  engineer's  room. 
He  felt  rather  bitter.  Here  he'd  been  going  along  nicely  for 
two  whole  days  and  now  this  happens !     Spoken  to  like  a  dog 


COMMAND  33 

over  a  little  petty  thing  like  this.  As  if  it  was  his  fault  the 
blamed  thing  had  got  smashed.  Did  he  notice  it !  As  if  the 
chief  officer  of  a  ship  had  no  more  to  do  than  moon  round  the 
deck,  looking  at  things.     .     .     . 

If  Captain  Meredith  had  told  Mr.  Spokesly  that  he  himself 
had  achieved  a  rung  in  the  ladder  by  the  simple  process  of 
paying  very  strict  attention  to  his  boats,  it  would  have  been 
the  bare  truth,  but  Mr.  Spokesly  would  not  have  seen  the 
point.  He  found  the  chief  engineer  standing  before  his  desk 
in  some  deshabille,  filling  a  black  briar.  His  broad,  hairy 
torso  was  almost  naked,  for  the  scanty  singlet  was  torn  under 
the  arms  and  ripped  across  the  bosom.  His  high-coloured 
features  and  reddish  moustache  were  smeared  with  black  oil, 
and  he  was  breathing  in  heaves  as  though  he  had  been  run- 
ning. When  Mr.  Spokesly  presented  his  broken  binnacle 
the  chief  glanced  at  it  with  a  scarcely  perceptible  flicker  of 
his  bushy  eyebrows  and  continued  to  fill  his  pipe  from  a 
canister  on  the  desk. 

"Well,  Mr.  Spokesly,"  he  remarked  in  a  voice  suitable  for 
addressing  an  immense  open-air  meeting.  "Well,  what  is  it 
now?"     And  he  struck  a  match  and  lit  his  pipe. 

Mr.  Spokesly  explained  that  he  wanted  it  mended. 

"Oh,  you  want  it  mended.  Well,  why  don't  you  ship  a 
tinker,  my  fine  fellow.'*  Eh?  Why  not  indent  for  a  tinker? 
YouVe  got  a  carpenter  and  a  lamp  trimmer  and  a  bo'sun  and 
a  squad  of  quartermasters.  What's  a  tinker  more  or  less?" 
And  sitting  back  in  his  swivel  chair  and  blowing  great  clouds, 
he  looked  maliciously  at  Mr.  Spokesly.  The  chief  was  a 
man  with  an  atmosphere.  He  had  an  immense  experience, 
which  he  kept  to  himself  save  at  the  hour  of  need.  He  had 
an  admirable  staff  who  did  just  what  he  wanted  without  any 
rhetoric.  Save  at  times  like  the  present  moment,  when  Mr. 
Spokesly,  though  he  was  quite  unaware  of  it,  was  very  much 
de  trop  owing  to  a  breakdown  in  the  engine  room,  the  chief 
was  a  tolerant  and  breezy  example  of  the  old  school.  Just 
now,  with  the  sweat  cooling  on  his  back  and  a  battered 
binnacle  offered  to  him  for  repair,  he  took  refuge  in  dry 
malice.     He  studied  Mr.  Spokesly  mercilessly.     He  was,  or 


34  COMMAND 

at  any  rate  he  looked,  perfectly  aware  of  the  extreme  unfitness 
of  Mr.  Spokesly's  bodily  frame,  for  Mr.  Spokesly  had  done  no 
real  work  since  he  had  passed  for  second  mate  eleven  years 
before.  The  chief  himself  was  inclined  to  obesity,  for  he 
verged  on  fifty  and  his  frame  was  of  the  herculean  type,  need- 
ing much  nourishment  and  upholstery.  But  there  was  a 
difference  between  the  huge,  red-freckled  and  hirsute  masses 
upon  his  bones  and  the  soft  puffiness  of  Mr.  Spokesly's  fatty 
degeneration.  The  latter's  double  chin  was  in  singular  con- 
trast with  the  massive  and  muscular  salience  that  gave  the 
chief's  face  an  expression  of  indomitable  vigour.  He  sat 
there,  tipping  himself  slightly  back  in  his  swivel  chair,  looking 
quizzically  at  Mr.  Spokesly  through  the  tobacco  smoke.  Mr. 
Spokesly  was  annoyed.  The  chief  had  always  been  a  decent 
sort,  he  had  imagined,  and  here  he  was  jibbing  at  a  little 
thing  like  this.  After  all,  it  was  the  engineer's  business  to  do 
these  things.  He,  an  officer,  couldn't  be  expected  to  attend 
to  petty  details.  ...  A  short  figure  with  a  towel  over 
his  naked  shoulders  appeared  abruptly  out  of  the  engine 
room  and  passed  along  the  alleyway.  The  chief  called  in 
his  stentorian  tones,  which  issued  from  between  twisted  and 
broken  teeth,  "Hi,  Mr.  Tolleshunt,  here's  a  job  for  ye. 
Mate  wants  a  binnacle  fixed."  And  Mr.  Spokesly's  mind 
became  easy.  A  voice  from  behind  a  slammed  door  said  that 
the  mate  could  take  his  binnacle  and  chase  himself  round  the 
deck  with  it,  and  the  chief  cackled.  Mr.  Tolleshunt  came 
out  of  his  room  again  on  his  way  to  the  bathroom.  He  was  a 
young  man  with  a  thick  white  neck,  and  black  eyes  set  in  a 
dirty,  dead-white  face  which  bore  an  expression  of  smoulder- 
ing rage.  This,  however,  was  merely  an  index  of  character 
which,  like  many  such  indexes,  was  misleading.  Mr.  Tolles- 
hunt was  not  ill-tempered,  but  he  had  a  morbid  passion  for 
efficiency.  He  was  an  idealist,  with  a  practical  working 
ideal.  He  was  not  prepared  to  accept  anything  in  the  world 
as  an  adequate  substitute  for  achievement.  He  had  seen 
through  Mr.  Spokesly  at  once,  for  your  idealist  is  often  a 
clairvoyant  of  character.  And  as  he  passed  along  to  his  bath, 
his  black  eyes  smouldered  upon  the  chief  officer,  who  re- 


COMMAND  35 

membered  the  many  insults  he  had  swallowed  from  this  dirty- 
engineer,  and  hated  him.  Suddenly  Mr.  ToUeshunt  paused, 
with  his  hand  on  the  bathroom  door,  and  looked  back.  His 
dead-white  face,  the  firm  modelling  of  cheek  and  chin  curi- 
ously exaggerated  by  the  black  smears  of  grease,  broke  into 
a  grim  smile  as  he  spoke. 

"Say,  d*you  know  who  I  am.  Mister?"  he  asked,  and 
added,  "I'll  tell  ye.  I  m  the  Thorn  in  the  Flesh,"  and  he 
disappeared  into  the  bathroom,  whence  came  the  rumble  of 
water  being  boiled  up  by  steam.  Mr.  Spokesly's  eyes  re- 
turned to  the  burly  gentleman  who  was  regarding  him  with 
amusement.     Mr.  Spokesly  threw  up  his  hands. 

"Well,"  he  said,  looking  stonily  at  nothing,  "there  it  is. 
I  was  told  to  get  it  fixed,  an' " 

"Fix  it  then,"  said  the  chief  quietly.  Mr.  Spokesly  almost 
bridled. 

"Not  my  work,"  he  muttered. 

"Oh,  I  see;  it's  mine,  you  mean!"  surmised  the  other  in  a 
tone  of  assumed  enlightenment. 

"It's  engineer's  work,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly  irritably.  The 
chief  made  no  reply  for  a  moment,  merely  studying  Mr. 
Spokesly  intently. 

"  See  here.  Mister,"  he  began,  and  reached  out  a  huge  hand 
to  close  the  door.  "See  here.  Mister,  you're  under  a  mis- 
apprehension. Now  I'll  tell  you  the  whole  trouble.  You 
heard  Mr.  ToUeshunt  just  now.  D'ye  know  what  he  meant 
when  he  said  he  was  the  Thorn  in  the  Flesh?  It's  a  joke  of 
ours  in  the  mess  room.  He  meant  your  flesh.  And  the 
reason  for  that  is  that  you  men  up  on  the  bridge  are  in  a  false 
position.  Ye  have  executive  power  without  knowledge. 
Ye  command  a  ship  and  what  do  ye  know  about  a  ship?  To 
whom  do  ye  come  for  help,  whether  it  is  steering  or  driving  or 
discharging  or  salving  or  anything?  You  want  the  same  con- 
sideration and  power  that  you  have  on  a  sailing-ship,  where 
you  know  all  about  the  gear  and  make  out  yourselves.  Here, 
you  just  have  to  stand  by  while  we  do  it.  And  on  top  o'  that, 
you  come  down  here  with  your  silly  damn  breakages  and 
expect  us  to  be  tinkers  as  well.     You  think  Mr.  ToUeshunt 


36  COMMAND 

is  sadly  deficient  in  respect,  I  dare  say.  But  what  of  his 
side  o'  the  question?  He's  been  up  all  night  and  all  morning 
on  a  breakdown.  So's  the  second,  who's  still  at  it.  So  have 
I,  for  that  matter.  We've  all  three  of  us  got  just  as  good 
tickets  as  you.  Ye  never  heard  about  it.^  Of  course  not. 
What  could  ye  do  for  us.^^  When  ye've  pulled  that  handle  on 
the  bridge  and  heard  the  gong  answer,  you're  finished !  Ye're 
in  charge  of  a  box  of  mechanism  of  which  ye  know  nothing. 
Ye  walk  about  in  uniform  and  talk  big  about  yer  work,  and 
what  does  it  all  amount  to?  Ye're  a  young  man,  and  I'm, 
well,  not  so  young,  and  I  tell  ye  friendly.  Mister,  ye're  a  joke. 
Ye're  what  the  newspapers  call  an  anachronism  or  an 
anomaly,  I  forget  which.  Ye'll  never  get  men  like  young 
ToUeshunt,  men  who  know  their  work  from  A  to  Z,  to  treat 
ye  seriously  unless  ye  take  hold  and  study  a  ship  for  what  she 
is,  a  mass  o'  machinery.  Ye'll  have  to  get  shut  o'  the  notion 
that  as  soon  as  ye  become  oflBcers,  ye  must  lose  the  use  o'  your 
hands.  Now  there's  just  as  much  engineerin'  about  that 
binnacle  as  there  is  in  a  kettle  or  a  rabbit  hutch.  Put  one  o' 
your  young  apprentices  to  it,  and  if  he  can't,  make  him  learn. 
I've  been  with  old-time  skippers  who  could  do  anything,  from 
wire-splicing  to  welding  an  anchor  shackle.  They  learned  in 
the  yard  before  they  went  to  sea.  Your  young  fellers  can  do 
nothing  except  slather  a  hose  round  the  decks  and  ask  for 
higher  wages.  Now  don't  be  sore  because  I'm  telling  ye  the 
truth.  We're  busy  and  we're  tired.  We've  all  sorts  o' 
trouble  you  can't  understand,  vital  matters  that  mean  speed 
and  safety.  Suppose,  after  a  spell  on  the  bridge  in  fog,  ye 
were  to  come  down  to  yer  room  and  find  me  there  with  some 
ash-bags  to  sew  up,  eh?     Imagine  it!    Just  imagine  it!" 

He  sat  there,  looking  sideways  at  Mr.  Spokesly,  his  pipe 
between  his  enormous  thumb  and  knuckle,  asking  Mr. 
Spokesly  to  imagine  this  fearsome  thing.  But  Mr.  Spokesly's 
imagination  was  for  the  time  being  out  of  commission.  He 
was  scarcely  conscious  of  the  request,  so  intensely  preoccu- 
pied was  he  with  the  ghastly  cleavage  between  his  own  esti- 
mate of  his  position  and  the  chief's.  Back  of  all  these  frank 
insults  to  his  dignity,  Mr.   Spokesly  scented  the  sinister 


COMMAND  37 

prejudice  of  his  commander.  As  he  strode,  in  severe  mental 
disarray,  back  to  his  room,  he  discovered  a  conviction  that 
the  chief  "had  been  pumpin'  the  Old  Man.'*  Not  that  he 
needed  any  pumping,  of  course.  It  would  be  only  too  like 
him  to  blab  to  an  engineer  about  his  own  officers.  Well,  there 
it  was!  Mr.  Spokesly  pitched  the  hapless  binnacle  on  the 
settee  and  turned  to  the  wash-stand.  Perhaps  it  was  due  to 
the  course  of  the  London  School  of  Mnemonics,  the  course  in 
tracing  the  association  of  ideas,  that  when  his  eye  fell  on  the 
tumblers  in  the  rack  he  should  think  of  that  abominable  trick 
of  the  Old  Man  sneaking  in  and  smelling  the  glass  to  see  if  he, 
Mr.  Spokesly,  had  been  drinking.  Couldn't  trust  him  that 
far!  Do  what  he  would  he  could  give  no  satisfaction.  He 
would  ask  to  be  paid  off  to-morrow  as  soon  as  they  dropped 
anchor  in  Saloniki  harbour.  That  would  be  the  best  way. 
Just  pull  out  of  it.  They  would  realize,  when  he  was  gone, 
the  sort  of  man  they  had  lost.  The  flame  of  indignation  died 
out  again  and  he  sat  moodily  pondering  the  difficulty  of 
commanding  an  adequate  appreciation.  Command!  The 
word  stung  him  to  bodily  movement.  If  only  he  could  once 
grasp  the  sceptre,  he  could  defy  them  all.  He  would  have  the 
whip-hand  then.  And  there  were  ways,  there  were  ways  of 
making  money.  Some  he  had  heard  of  on  this  run  were 
quadrupling  their  incomes.  Archy  had  whispered  incredible 
stories  of  skippers  and  stewards  working  together  .  .  . 
working  together.  Perhaps  it  would  be  worth  while  to  stick 
to  the  ship  for  a  voyage  or  so,  even  if  he  did  have  to  put  up 
with  this  sort  of  thing.  They  would  reach  Saloniki  in  a  few 
hours,  and  then  they  would  see. 

It  frequently  happens  that  moods  which  would  logically 
drive  men  mad,  moods  which  seem  to  have  no  natural  anti- 
dote, are  broken  up  and  neutralized  by  some  entirely  fortui- 
tous event.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  Mr.  Spokesly's 
grievances  were  inducing  one  of  these  moods,  when  the 
wholesome  activity  of  affairs  on  the  forecastle-head,  the  keen 
autumn  wind  blowing  across  the  bony  ridges  of  Chalcidice, 
and  the  professional  criticism  evoked  by  the  ships  outward- 
bound,  blew  the  foul  vapours  away.  Captain  Meredith,  whose 


38  COMMAND 

reflective  and  unchallenging  blue  eyes  were  visible  between 
the  weather-cloth  and  the  laced  peak  of  his  cap,  made  a 
mental  note  that  "the  man  was  doing  himself  justice."  Of 
course  Captain  Meredith  did  not  perceive  how  very  wide  of 
the  mark  his  sensible  phrase  led  him.  Mr.  Spokesly  always 
did  himself  justice.  What  he  was  eternally  hunting  for,  in 
and  out  of  the  maze  in  which  he  spent  his  life,  was  justice 
from  others.  Captain  Meredith  did  not  realize  that  a 
middle-aged  man  with  a  grievance  is  like  a  man  who  has  been 
skinned — to  touch  him  causes  the  most  exquisite  agony. 
Nay,  merely  to  exist,  to  permit  the  orderly  march  of  every- 
day routine,  chafes  him  to  the  verge  of  hysteria.  It  was 
nothing  to  Mr.  Spokesly  that  he  was  serving  his  country; 
nothing  to  him  that  he  was  in  imminent  peril  by  mine  and 
torpedo.  During  the  voyage  he  had  scarcely  noticed  the 
occasional  formal  slips  that  came  from  the  wireless  house 
informing  them  that  an  enemy  submarine  w^as  operating  in 
such  and  such  a  position,  so  many  miles  ahead  or  astern 
as  the  case  might  be.  Mr.  Spokesly  had  never  seen  a  sub- 
marine and  he  didn't  want  to.  The  whole  business  of  war  in 
his  eyes  became  a  ghastly  farce  so  long  as  he  was  not  appre- 
ciated at  his  true  worth.  It  might  almost  be  said  that  at 
times  he  was  indifferent  to  the  outcome  of  the  gigantic 
struggle.  A  horrible  unrest  assailed  him.  The  world  was 
heaving  in  a  death  grapple  with  the  powers  of  darkness  and 
he  was  as  nothing  in  the  balance. 

But  as  he  walked  the  forecastle-head  and  the  Tanganyika 
passed  through  the  bottle  neck  of  Kara  Burun  into  the  wide 
waters  of  the  gulf-head,  he  was  restored  to  a  normal  atten- 
tion to  the  cut-and-dried  duties  of  his  calling.  There  was 
exhilaration  in  the  thought  of  foregathering  once  more  with 
Archy,  of  going  ashore  in  a  new  port.  And  there  would  be 
letters.  He  drew  a  deep  breath.  Ada  would  write.  Un- 
consciously he  straightened  up.  A  warm  glow  suffused  him 
as  he  recalled  her  dark-gray,  adoring  eyes  and  the  deep 
tremble  of  her  voice  as  she  called  him  her  sailor  sweetheart. 
After  all,  he  was  that.  He  was  understood  there,  he  thought, 
and  was  comforted.     Rung  by  rung  he  climbed  up  out  of  the 


COMMAND  39 

dark  dank  well  in  which  he  had  been  dwelling  until,  when  the 
compressors  had  been  screwed  up  tight  and  the  Tanganyika 
was  swinging  gently  on  her  eighty  fathom  of  cable,  he  was 
recapitulating  the  heartening  words  he  had  last  read  in  his 
"course"  in  the  London  School  of  Mnemonics. 

Think  well  of  yourself  and  your  ability^  it  ran.  Get  the 
habit  of  believing  in  your  own  ambition.  This  is  only  another 
way  of  saying  that  faith  can  move  mountains.  But  remember 
that  to  be  satisfied  with  what  you  are  is  to  lose  grip.  If  you  are 
standing  stiM  you  are  slipping  back.  This  paradox  will  be 
shown.     .     .     . 

It  was  some  hours  later,  after  dinner,  that  Captain  Mere- 
dith sat  at  the  desk  in  his  room  looking  out  of  the  big  side- 
scuttle  at  the  blood-red  and  purple  of  the  western  sky  beyond 
the  Vardar  delta.  It  was  such  a  sunset  as  one  may  see  across 
Lake  Pontchartrain  in  the  fall,  or  looking  up  some  aisle  of  the 
dark  silent  forests  that  fringe  the  swamps  of  the  Georgia 
coast.  It  has  the  opaque  glamour  that  comes  from  the  dense 
vapours  rising  from  a  marsh,  the  tangible  beauty  of  a  giant 
curtain  rather  than  the  far  glories  of  miles  of  ambient  moun- 
tain air.  But  Captain  Meredith  was  not  occupied  with 
esthetic  musings.  In  his  hand  he  held  a  letter  from  the 
superintendent  in  London,  and  he  sought  seclusion,  as  was 
his  wont,  in  looking  out  towards  the  immense  polychrome  of 
the  sky.  For  the  letter  contained  orders  which  might  in- 
volve him  in  some  difl&culties.  He  was  instructed  to  file,  in 
an  enclosed  form,  precise  particulars  of  all  his  officers*  records, 
and  return  them  accompanied  by  his  own  opinion  as  to  their 
fitness  for  promotion.  It  would  be  necessary,  he  was  in- 
formed, to  engage  a  large  number  of  additional  officers  for  a 
fleet  which  the  company  had  purchased  all  standing,  and  the 
directors  were  anxious  that  those  already  in  their  employ 
should  have  the  pick  of  the  billets.  It  was  important,  he  was 
warned,  that  he  use  care  in  recommending  any  man,  as  the 
directors  proposed  to  act  upon  these  suggestions,  and  the 
failure  of  a  nominee  would  react  unfavourably  upon  the  pres- 
tige of  the  commander  responsible  for  the  report. 


40  COMMAND 

Like  all  men  who  have  grown  up  inside  the  protecting  walls 
of  tradition  and  routine,  Captain  Meredith  was  unable  to 
view  a  situation  without  prejudice.  Some  small  portion  of 
free  and  independent  judgment  he  had,  or  he  would  never 
have  become  master;  but  the  bulk  of  the  decisions  which  he 
had  to  make  were  obtained  by  unconscious  reference  to  rules, 
written  or  unwritten.  This  order,  however,  involved  just 
that  small  part  of  his  mental  equipment  which  made  his  work 
of  interest  to  him,  his  imagination  if  you  like.  It  forced  him 
to  take  a  far  wider  view  than  was  ordinarily  advisable.  He 
was  aware  of  the  popular  legends  which  have  grown  around 
great  commanders — legends  of  their  genius  for  selecting 
subordinates,  their  uncanny  aptitude  for  appraising  a  man's 
p)owers  at  a  glance.  Not  so  easy.  Captain  Meredith  had 
found  it.  Like  most  of  us,  he  had  in  time  cultivated  a  habit 
of  suspending  judgment,  a  habit  of  discounting  the  dreadful 
eflBciency  of  the  new  broom,  the  total  abstainer,  the  college- 
graduate,  and  the  newly  married.  What  he  waited  for  time 
to  reveal  was  the  man's  principle.  Without  the  main 
girder  and  tie-ribs  of  principle,  all  was  as  nothing.  And  yet 
what  comprised  this  principle  Captain  Meredith  would  have 
been  sore  put  to  it  to  explain.  It  was  not  enthusiasm,  nor 
was  it  will  power.  It  was  not  even  intellect  or  civil  responsi- 
bility. It  was  deeper  than  any  of  these,  a  subtle  manifes- 
tation of  character  as  elusive  and  imponderable  as  a  beam  of 
light  or  the  expression  on  a  man's  face.  Somewhat  to  his 
surprise  Captain  Meredith's  reflections  showed  him  that  not 
even  compatibility  of  temperament  had  much  to  do  with  it. 
He  and  old  McGinnis  had  never  been  warm  friends,  had 
even  had  frequent  differences  on  minor  details  of  executive 
routine.  Neither  of  them  would  have  invited  the  other  to 
his  home,  had  the  opportunity  served.  That  did  not  mat- 
ter. He  had  had  some  experience  of  officers  quite  different 
from  Mr.  McGinnis,  clever,  gay  young  men,  "good  mixers," 
passengers'  favourites,  and  he  had  discovered  that  a  man  may 
be  a  brilliant  social  success  and  a  useless  incumbrance  at  the 
same  time.  To  state  the  problem  to  himself  was  difficult, 
but  it  was  forced  upon  him  irresistibly  when  he  endeavoured 


COMMAND  41 

to  formulate  his  mature  conclusions  upon  the  subject  of  Mr. 
Spokesly.  His  chief  officer  was  his  chief  concern.  Of  the 
others  he  was  able  to  set  down  a  fairly  just  and  intelligible 
estimate.  Young  Chippenham  was  a  bundle  of  amiable 
possibilities.  He  would  have  to  get  his  certificates  before  the 
company  would  make  him  or  break  him.  The  chief  engineer 
was  at  the  other  end  of  the  scale.  His  name  was  made.  Be- 
hind him  was  a  career  of  sohd  responsibility,  of  grave  crises 
met  and  mastered  with  cool  generalship  and  unbeatable 
energy.  He  was  one  of  those  men  who  carry  in  their  own 
personality  the  prestige  of  a  race,  a  nation,  and  a  learned 
profession.  Of  the  others  it  would  be  safe  to  take  his  verdict. 
Mr.  Spokesly,  therefore,  remained  the  chief  source  of  anxiety. 
For  it  was  not  a  simple  question  of  bearing  witness  to  Mr. 
Spokesly 's  ability  as  a  seaman,  as  a  navigator,  or  as  a  desir- 
able junior  officer.  The  tremendous  responsibility  from 
which  Captain  Meredith  shrank  was  twofold.  On  the  one 
hand,  he  had  to  accept  the  onus  of  recommending  his  chief 
officer  for  a  command.  On  the  other  lay  the  grave  danger  of 
injustice  to  a  brother  professional.  Mr.  Spokesly  was  a  man 
no  longer  in  his  first  youth,  no  doubt  engaged  to  be  married, 
with  ambitions  and  aspirations  with  which  Captain  Meredith 
had  the  deepest  sympathy.  It  was  no  small  matter  to  stop 
a  man's  promotion.  He  remembered  how  he  himself,  piqued 
at  some  ungenerous  act  of  the  company,  had  talked  of  resig- 
nation, and  his  commander  had  taken  him  by  the  arm  and 
muttered  contemptuously,  "And  spoil  yourself  for  life,  eh?" 
And  when  asked  "How .5^"  that  same  shipmaster  had  drawn 
a  brutal  picture  of  a  man  throwing  up  a  billet  just  as  he  was 
getting  a  name,  entering  another  employ  as  a  junior,  spending 
years  working  up  to  chief  mate  again,  only  to  find  about  a 
score  of  active,  intelligent,  and  experienced  officers  on  the  list 
ahead  of  him,  and  gradually  resigning  himself  to  the  colourless 
existence  of  an  elderly  failure.  Captain  Meredith  was  not 
the  man  to  condemn  a  brother  officer  to  such  a  fate  without 
an  overwhelming  conviction.     Rather  would  he 

But  his  thoughts  refused  to  travel  that  road.     He  sat 
looking  out  at  the  sombre  beauty  of  the  sky,  noting  the  long 


42  COMMAND 

rigid  black  bar  that  divided  sharply  the  dark  swamps  from 
the  shining  pallor  of  the  roadstead.  He  tapped  his  teeth 
with  his  pencil.  No,  he  was  not  prepared  to  jeopardize  his 
own  prospects.  He  had  a  family.  He  hoped  to  spend  more 
time  with  them  later  .  .  .  after  the  war.  He  was 
beginning  to  think  sea  life  was  narrowing.  One  got  out  of 
touch  with  so  many  phases  of  human  interest  and  ac- 
tivity. .  .  .  One  toiled  and  moiled,  and  suffered  agonies 
of  anxiety  and  defeated  vigilance;  sleep  and  leisure  went  by 
the  board  for  days;  one  found  fault  and  made  mistakes; 
superior  young  men  in  warships  asked  sarcastic  questions 
during  the  small  hours;  and  all  to  what  end.'^  After  all,  one 
only  earned  for  all  this  the  salary  which  a  successful  barrister 
or  surgeon  would  pay  his  chauffeur.  It  was  preposterous, 
when  one  came  to  regard  it.  So  Captain  Meredith's  thoughts 
ran  on,  with  a  sort  of  light  bitterness,  sharpening  their  flavour 
and  inclining  him  to  charity.  In  more  senses  than  one,  he 
and  Mr.  Spokesly  were  in  the  same  boat.  He  put  his  papers 
away  in  a  drawer,  picked  up  his  cigar  to  take  the  air  on  the 
bridge.  Without  registering  any  final  and  irrevocable  de- 
cision, he  had  made  a  mental  note  that  "unless  the  man  made 
an  ass  of  himself"  he  would  not  stand  in  his  way. 

The  sun,  concealed  behind  a  distant  range,  threw  up  a  ruddy 
and  vigorous  glow  as  from  an  open  cupola,  but  the  roadstead 
lay  in  a  profound  shadow  whose  edge  began  to  sparkle  with 
coloured  lights  of  a  singular  distinctness  and  individuality. 
It  was  like  watching  from  the  depths  of  space  a  congregation 
of  blessed  yet  still  intensely  personal  spirits  on  the  heavenly 
shores.  They  stood  in  clusters  or  apart,  in  long  lines  or 
zigzags  far  up  the  mountain  side.  At  times  they  were  ob- 
literated by  trolley  cars — gently  moving  glares  which  bore 
on  their  foreheads  flashing  blue-white  gems.  At  other  times 
a  fountain  of  sparks  indicated  an  otherwise  invisible  puff 
of  smoke  from  a  locomotive,  and  whole  galaxies  of  shining 
points  would  vanish  while  an  ammunition  train  moved 
laboriously  across  the  city.  But  no  knowledge  of  the  actual 
causes  could  destroy  the  illusion  that  the  lights  were  informed 
with  an  intelligent  vitality.     They  winked  and  quivered  with 


COMMAND  43 

mysterious  emotions.  They  went  on  journeys  among  other 
fixed  stars  of  greater  magnitude.  They  came  out  in  boats 
over  the  dark  water  as  though  possessed  with  a  passion  for 
exploring,  and  then,  losing  heart,  would  go  back  in  a  hurry,  or 
else  expire.  They  raced  along  country  roads  and  vanished 
in  folds  of  the  hills.  They  danced  and  were  smitten  with 
idiotic  immobility.  They  were  born,  and  they  died  sudden 
and  inexplicable  deaths.  They  were  shocked,  or  were  filled 
with  calm  content.  Low  down  on  the  edge  of  the  shore, 
where  an  open-air  cinema  was  working  convulsively,  the 
lights  had  collected  in  some  excitement  around  the  screen. 
Captain  Meredith,  raising  his  night  glasses  to  inspect  this 
novel  portent,  imagined  himself  watching  a  square  hole  in  a 
dark  spangled  curtain,  through  which  a  drama  of  inconceiv- 
able brightness  and  rapidity  could  be  observed.  It  was,  the 
captain  imagined  whimsically,  like  watching  a  huge  brain  at 
work,  if  such  a  thing  were  possible.  He  occasionally  took 
refuge  from  himself  in  such  reflections.  Without  any  pre- 
tence to  originality,  he  occasionally  found  himself  in  pos- 
session of  thoughts  for  which  custom  had  provided  no  suitable 
phrase.  With  the  humility  common  to  those  of  gentle 
birth  who  have  followed  the  sea,  he  kept  the  results  to  himself. 
Even  in  letters  to  his  wife,  he  adhered  to  the  conventional 
insipidity  that  makes  an  Englishman's  letters  home  one  of 
the  wonders  of  the  world.  He  had  become  somewhat  fearful 
of  originality,  even  in  others,  during  his  honeymoon,  when  he 
had  tried  timidly  to  interest  his  wife  in  a  novel  he  was  reading. 
It  was  a  novel  about  sailors  and  the  sea,  of  all  things  in  the 
world,  and  Captain  Meredith  had  been  so  intrigued  with  the 
notion  of  a  story  written  about  sailors  without  distorting 
them  out  of  all  recognition  that  he  couldn't  keep  it  to  himself. 
And  he  had  been  completely  nonplussed  when  his  gentle, 
blonde,  a;nd  slightly  angular  young  wife  had  displayed  not 
merely  a  tepid  lack  of  interest  but  downright  dislike.  "I 
don't  hke  it,"  she  had  said  acidly,  and  returned  to  her  own 
book,  an  interminable  tale  of  gipsies  and  highwaymen  in 
masks,  and  a  "reigning  toast"  with  forty  thousand  pounds. 
They  had  been  married  some  time  before  he  realized  just 


44  COMMAND 

what  it  was  she  didn't  like  in  the  story.  And  when  he  real- 
ized it,  he  put  the  thought  from  him  in  trepidation,  for  he 
was  prepared  to  sacrifice  everything  for  her  sake.  She  em- 
bodied for  him  all  that  he  craved  of  England.  She  was 
typical,  as  she  bent  over  their  one  child,  a  flaxen-haired  little 
girl  with  incredibly  thin  limbs.  And  he  was  typical,  too — as 
he  thought  of  them  and  their  setting  at  Ealing — the  modern 
Englishman  who  has  given  intellectual  hostages  to  fortune. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MR.  SPOKESLY  once  said  in  so  many  words  that  he 
disbelieved  utterly  in  premonition.  There  was,  he 
said,  nothing  in  it.  If  there  were,  he  remarked,  we 
should  be  different.  When  pressed,  he  admitted  freely  that 
if  we  could  read  the  signs  we  might  get  adequate  warning  of 
impending  events;  but  by  the  time  we  have  gotten  the  ex- 
perience we  are  too  old  to  bother  about  the  future  at  all. 
This,  of  course,  was  when  the  war  was  finished  and  Mr. 
Spokesly,  with  the  rest  of  the  Merchant  Service,  had  slipped 
back  into  that  obscure  neglect  from  which  they  had  tempo- 
rarily emerged.  The  gist  of  his  remarks,  therefore,  seems  to 
bear  out  the  view  that  he  had  not  the  faintest  notion,  when  he 
went  ashore  that  evening  in  Saloniki  with  the  gifted  and 
amusing  Mr.  Bates,  that  he  was  on  the  brink  of  a  fundamental 
change  in  his  life.  Looking  back,  he  was  almost  induced  to 
imagine  that  it  was  someone  else  who  came  ashore  with  Mr. 
Bates,  a  sort  of  distant  relation,  say,  who  had  borrowed  his 
body  for  the  evening.  And  he  was  inclined  to  admit  that, 
assuming  what  the  philosophers  say  is  true — that  the  only 
use  of  knowledge  is  for  the  purpose  of  action — it  would  pre- 
serve our  idealism  if  our  subconscious  adumbrations  could 
only  be  induced  to  function  in  a  more  emphatic  manner. 

The  reason  for  interjecting  this  sample  of  Mr..  Spokesly 's 
later  mentality  is  to  be  rid  of  any  possible  ambiguity.  If  Mr. 
Spokesly  had  been  nothing  more  than  Mr.  Bates's  boon  com- 
panion his  story  would  not  be  worth  telling,  there  being 
obviously  so  many  other  more  interesting  people  in  the  world. 
We  have  seen  that  Mr.  Spokesly  himself  was  aware  of  his 
real  value,  and  had  appealed  to  the  London  School  of  Mne- 
monics to  elucidate  his  latent  self  from  the  commonplace 
shell  in  which  he  strove.    The  London  School  of  Mnemonics 

45 


46  COMMAND 

responded  nobly  according  to  its  doctrines.  It  supplied  him 
with  an  astonishing  quantity  of  intellectual  fuel,  so  to  say, 
but  omitted  to  indicate  how  it  was  to  be  ignited.  Indeed,  it 
is  very  singular  how  public  and  commercial  organizations 
continually  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  in  the  spiritual  world 
spontaneous  combustion  does  not  exist.  And  it  is  also  true 
that  the  stark  and  secular  desires  of  a  man's  soul,  however 
powerful  they  may  be  to  achieve  a  multiplicity  of  base  ends, 
can  do  nothing  for  the  man  himself  unless  they  are  illuminated 
and  shot  through  by  some  grand  passion,  whether  of  friend- 
ship, religion,  or  love.  Which  of  these,  depends  upon  the 
man.  Some  fortunate  beings  are  the  exponents  of  all  three. 
Most  of  us,  and  Mr.  Spokesly  was  one,  are  destined  to  know 
very  little  of  either  friendship  or  religion.  So  much  might 
have  been  postulated.  He  was  under  no  illusions  as  to  his 
emotional  resources.  His  remark  that  he  could  fall  in  love 
with  almost  any  girl,  so  long  as  she  had  a  bit  o'  money,  was 
really  a  very  fine  declaration  of  extreme  modesty.  The 
virtuous  are  less  humble.  They  lay  extravagant  claims  to 
the  privilege  of  having  an  ideal.  Mr.  Spokesly,  as  he  sat 
beside  Mr.  Bates,  who  was  smiling  to  himself  in  the  darkness, 
watched  the  flashing  lights  of  the  Place  de  la  Liberte  grow 
larger  and  larger;  and,  as  the  din  of  the  trafBc  reached  his 
ears,  experienced  that  feeling  of  pleasant  and  passive  recep- 
tivity which  he  learned  in  time  to  know  as  the  inevitable 
precursor  of  some  momentous  change. 

Not  so  Mr.  Bates,  who  smiled  in  the  darkness.  Mr. 
Bates  was  one  of  those  human  beings  who  manifest  the 
shadowless  and  unwinking  intelligence  of  the  lower  animals. 
The  past,  to  Mr.  Bates,  was  a  period  in  which  he  had  done 
well.  The  future  was  a  period  in  which  he  would  do  well. 
Between  these  two  delectable  countries  Mr.  Bates  moved 
gently  along,  a  slightly  intoxicated  optimist.  The  perils  of 
the  sea  and  of  war,  the  hatred  of  man  or  the  wrath  of  God 
made  no  conscious  impression  upon  Mr.  Bates  at  all.  Any 
of  them  might  crush  him  at  any  moment,  but  he  proceeded 
steadily  upon  his  predatory  way  very  much  as  a  spider  cross- 
ing a  path  proceeds  until  some  careless  but  omnipotent 


COMMAND  47 

passer  crushes  it  beneath  his  heel.  His  attitude  towards  the 
gigantic  engines  of  human  destiny,  which  preoccupy  most  of 
us  so  much,  was  expressed  in  the  pussy-cat  smile  in  the 
darkness — a  smile  unseen  and  undesired. 

"We'll  go  into  Floka's  first,"  he  remarked,  as  the  boat 
bumped  thfe  marble  steps  between  the  kiosks  of  the  Place. 
He  stood  up,  and  his  smile  was  illuminated  by  the  sizzling 
glare  of  the  arc  lights  along  the  quay,  a  smile  that  was,  as  we 
have  said,  fitted  on  over  his  face,  and  which  bobbed  up  and 
down  in  obedience  to  the  rhythmic  undulations  of  the  boat 
in  the  water.  They  waited  for  a  moment  until  the  Greek 
had  made  fast,  and  then  stepped  ashore. 

"Why,  is  that  a  good  place?"  enquired  Mr.  Spokesly. 

"Oh,  yes.  The  best  place.  My  friend,  he  goes  there  often. 
By  and  by,  of  course,  we'll  go  along  and  see  the  talent.  I'll 
show  you,  my  boy.  Believe  me.  .  .  ."  They  crossed 
the  car  lines  and  walked  towards  the  cafe  which  Mr.  Bates's 
friend  honoured.  Floka's  was  full.  The  little  tables  outside 
were  thickly  populated  with  gentlemen  engaged  in  the 
national  pastime  of  cigarette-smoking  and  coffee-drinking, 
and  the  grandiose  interior,  as  severe  and  lofty  and  dirty  as  a 
Balkan  politician,  was  thick  with  smoke  and  murmurous 
with  conversation  and  the  consumption  of  food.  Mr.  Bates 
led  the  way  to  a  far  corner  where  a  long  thin  man,  his  frock 
coat  falling  away  open  from  a  heavily  brocaded  vest  with 
onyx  buttons,  and  his  scarlet  tarboosh  on  one  side  of  his 
head,  was  lolling  on  the  crimson  plush  cushions.  In  one 
hand  he  held  the  stem  of  an  amber-mouthed  narghileh. 
On  the  table  was  an  empty  coffee  cup  and  a  glass  of  mastic. 
Across  his  long  thin  thighs  lay  a  Greek  newspaper.  He  was 
reclining  completely  inert,  gazing  moodily  across  the  crowded 
restaurant.  The  alteration  in  his  demeanour  when  he  be- 
came aware  of  Mr.  Bates  standing  before  him  was  dramatic. 
It  was  as  though  he  had  suddenly  seen  a  very  funny  joke  and 
had  been  subjected  to  an  electric  current  of  high  voltage 
at  the  same  time.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  extraordinary 
animation,  and  his  face  was  contorted  from  a  sombre  melan- 
choly to  what  seemed  to  be  an  almost  demoniac  joy.     It  would 


48  COMMAND 

be  a  solecism  to  say  he  looked  as  though  a  fortune  had  been 
left  him.  No  one  was  at  all  likely  to  leave  Mr.  Dainoj>oulos 
a  fortune.  No  one  had  ever  left  anything  of  value  within  his 
reach  without  regretting  it  extremely.  It  will  suffice  to  say 
that  his  features  registered  a  certain  degree  of  pleasure  upon 
seeing  Mr.  Bates. 

"Why,  my  dear  friend!"  he  exclaimed  in  a  sort  of  muffled 
scream,  and  he  wrung  the  honest  hand  of  Mr.  Bates  as  though 
that  gentleman  had  only  that  moment  rescued  him  from  a 
combination  of  drowning  and  bankruptcy.  "And  how  are 
you?  Sit  down  if  you  please.  What  will  you  have  to  drink.? 
You  must  be — ^what  you  call  it.'^ — dry.  Ha-ha!  Sit  down. 
This  is  good  luck.  Your  friend?  I  am  very  pleased.  Sit 
down  please.  Here!"  He  clapped  his  hands  with  frightful 
vehemence,  and  held  up  a  distracted  waiter  who  was  in  full 
flight  towards  a  distant  table  with  a  loaded  tray.  Mr. 
Dainopoulos,  gently  pressing  Mr.  Bates  and  Mr.  Spokesly 
into  two  chairs,  addressed  the  waiter  as  Herakles  and  gave 
him  an  order  which  sounded  to  his  guests  like  a  loose  board 
being  ripped  forcibly  from  a  nailed-up  box.  Mr.  Spokesly, 
sitting  immediately  opposite  this  monster  of  hospitality,  was 
not  favourably  impressed.  Mr.  Dainopoulos  rarely  impressed 
people  favourably  at  first.  The  long  emaciated  face  had  the 
texture  of  the  uppers  of  an  old  buckskin  shoe.  The  blood- 
shot brown  eyes  in  their  reddened  sockets  seemed  in  danger 
of  falling  into  the  great  pouches  of  loose  skin  below  them. 
The  mouth,  full  of  sharp  yellow  teeth  and  open  as  though 
about  to  yawn,  had  been  slit  back  to  the  salience  of  the  jaw 
at  some  time  and  had  been  sewn  up  in  a  sketchy  fashion 
indicated  by  a  white  zig-zag  scar  like  a  flash  of  lightning.  As 
he  talked  this  scar  worked  with  disconcerting  vivacity.  Mr. 
Spokesly  turned  with  relief  to  the  whiskies  and  sodas  which 
apjjeared,  borne  by  the  industrious  Herakles. 

"And  how  is  business?"  asked  Mr.  Bates,  having  lifted  his 
glass  and  set  it  down  empty.  Beyond  three  or  four  sherries 
and  bitters  and  a  glass  of  gin  and  vermouth,  before  coming 
ashore,  he  had  drunk  nothing  all  day.  He  was  thirsty. 
"And  how  is  business?" 


COMMAND  49 

.  A  simple  question.  And  yet  Mr.  Dainopoulos  did  not 
render  a  simple  answer.  He  regarded  Mr.  Bates  for  a  mo- 
ment and  then  turned  his  head  cautiously  to  right  and  left. 
Preserving  an  impressive  silence  he  caught  Mr.  Spokesly's 
eyes  and  smiled,  taking  a  suck  at  his  narghileh.  It  was  at 
this  juncture  that  two  French  naval  officers,  seated  at  a 
distant  table  and  smoking  cigarettes  in  long  ivory  holders 
(to  keep  the  smoke  from  their  beards),  exchanged  opinions 
upon  the  folly  of  their  British  allies  in  permitting  the  officers 
of  ships  to  come  ashore  in  civilian  attire. 

"You  are  quite  sure,  of  course,  that  they  are  officers  of  a 
transport.?"  said  the  elder,  observing  with  attention. 

"Quite,  my  commandant.  From  the  Tanganyika,  arrived 
to-day.  The  little  one  I  know  well.  The  other  I  observed 
upon  the  forecastle  as  she  anchored." 

"But  what  are  they  doing  in  company  with  him  ?" 

The  lieutenant  raised  his  shoulders. 

"I  imagine,  my  commandant,  that  they  do  a  little  business 
in  hashish.  But  in  any  case  it  is  not  what  you  imagine.  The 
English  do  not  spy." 

"But  Dainopoulos  may  use  them,  eh?" 

"Impossible,  my  commandant.  You  do  not  know  them. 
I  do.  As  you  are  aware,  I  was  in  the  Credit  Lyonnais  in 
Lombard  Street.  If  Mr.  Dainopoulos  attempted  to  enhst 
their  services  they  would  batter  his  head  in  with  his  own 
narghileh.  They  have  no  compunction  about  robbing  their 
government  by  peculation,  but  treachery  is  not  their  metier. 
And  our  friend  knows  it  quite  well. ' ' 

"Business,"  observed  Mr.  Dainopoulos  suddenly,  "is  very 
bad." 

Mr.  Bates  seemed  very  amused  at  this  and  leaned  over  the 
dirty  marble-topped  table. 

"  Count  us  both  in,  my  friend  here  and  me,  for  the  same  as 
last  time.     How  about  it,  eh?" 

"Oh!"  Mr.  Dainopoulos  pulled  his  extended  frame  up 
and  put  his  elbows  on  the  table,  his  eyes  blinking  quickly. 
"Oh,  that's  all  right.  Yes,  certainly.  But  I  mean  to  say 
business  is  very  bad.     You  would  not  believe  me.  Mister,  but 


50  COMMAND 

the  chances  that  are  going,  and  all  for  a  little  management, 
are  lost!  Incredible!  Only  this  week'* —  here  he  lowered 
his  voice  so  that  Mr.  Spokesly,  who  was  listening  with  un- 
divided attention,  scarcely  gathered  the  words — "only  this 
week,  I  could  have  made — ah,  much  money — if  I  had  with 
me  an  Englishman  who  knows  the  business.  Ten  thousand 
drachma,  easy  as  that!"  Mr.  Dainopoulos  snapped  his 
fingers  without  a  sound  and  looked  depressed. 

Mr.  Bates  did  not  look  depressed.  His  smile  evaporated 
and  he  looked  down  his  nose  into  his  moustache  with  an 
expression  of  ruffled  propriety. 

"I  must  say '*  he  began,  and  added,  after  a  pause, 

"  'Course  we  hadn't  arrived,  but  I  should  'ave  thought,  seein' 
we  was  due  here,  you  might  have  counted  on  me." 

Mr.  Dainopoulos  regarded  Mr.  Bates  as  though  he  were 
sizing  him  up  for  the  first  time  and  found  him  to  amount  to 
an  almost  negligible  quantity.     And  then  he  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  murmured  in  a  muffled  tone.  "That's  not  what 
I  meant.  What  I  wanted — ^too  late  now,  of  course — was  a 
Kapitan." 

Mr.  Bates,  touching  Mr.  Spokesly's  foot  with  his  own, 
emitted  a  snigger  right  in  the  face  of  Mr.  Dainopoulos. 

"And  what  about  it?"  he  queried,  impudently.  "My 
friend  here's  got  a  master's  ticket.  What's  the  matter  with 
him?     I'm  surprised " 

He  was.  To  Mr.  Bates  it  was  unpleasant  to  discover  that 
Mr.  Dainopoulos  should  doubt  his  ability  to  cope  with  any 
situation  which  involved  a  financial  reward.  That  gentle- 
man, however,  was  not  exclusively  preoccupied  with  Mr. 
Bates  and  his  emotions.  He  turned  immediately  to  Mr. 
Spokesly  who  sat  quietly  twisting  his  glass  of  whiskey  on  the 
marble  table.  The  pale,  prominent,  and  bloodshot  brown 
eyes  examined  Mr.  Spokesly  with  passionless  attention.  Mr. 
Dainopoulos  had  filled  many  posts  in  his  career.  Quite  apart 
from  his  participation  in  what  he  discreetly  alluded  to  as 
"the  wars,"  he  had  rendered  some  slight  assistance  to  the 
builders  of  the  Panama  Canal  as  stoker  on  an  excavator,  he 
had  worked  in  a  felt-hat  factory  in  Newark,  New  Jersey; 


COMMAND  51 

he  had  been  a  waiter  in  a  Greek  cafe  near  Franklin 
Square,  New  York;  he  had  held  the  position  of  clerk 
in  the  warehouse  of  a  Turkish  tobacco  importer  in  London; 
and  he  had  also  been  an  assistant  purser  in  one  of  the  Rouma- 
nian Lloyd  mail  steamers  which  used  to  run  from  Costanza 
to  Alexandria.  He  was  one  of  those  people  who,  as  the  say- 
ing is,  "could  write  a  book,'*  which  means  they  can  do  or 
have  done  almost  everything  except  write  a  book.  Such 
j>eople  are  rarely  of  a  literary  turn.  Mr.  Dainopoulos  cer- 
tainly was  not.  But  he  had  one  faculty  which,  if  literary 
people  only  knew  it,  is  of  use  even  in  literature.  He  could 
size  a  man  up.  By  a  natural  turn  of  judgment,  so  necessary 
to  success  in  his  business  as  a  "general  merchant  and  ex- 
porter" coupled  with  ceaseless  practice,  he  had  acquired  a 
skill  in  sizing  up  which  seemed  as  effortless  and  intuitive  as 
the  driving  of  a  fine  golfer  or  the  wrist-work  of  a  professional 
billiard  player.  The  London  School  of  Mnemonics  could 
teach  Mr.  Dainopoulos  nothing  about  practical  psychology. 
He  might  even  have  given  them  some  useful  hints.  In  the 
present  instance  he  was  not  at  a  loss.  He  waited,  however, 
for  Mr.  Spokesly  to  make  some  comment. 

"That's  right  enough,"  said  the  latter,  leaning  forward  and 
smiling.  "But  I'd  have  to  know  a  little  more  of  the  game, 
you  understand.'^  There's  a  war  on,  you  know.  Can't  be 
too  careful." 

"True,"  assented  Mr.  Dainopoulos  reflectively  and  keeping 
his  prominent  eyes  fixed  upon  Mr.  Spokesly.  "You  do  not 
wish,  then,  to  take  a  chance?" 

"Oh,  a  chance  /"  Mr.  Spokesly  achieved  a  certain  irony 
as  he  emphasized  the  last  word.  "Your  ideas  of  a  chance 
and  mine  might  be  different.     S'pose  we  have  another  drink." 

The  watchful  Herakles  came  near  as  Mr.  Spokesly  lifted 
his  hand,  and  took  the  order. 

The  fact  was — and  it  may  be  presumed  that  Mr.  Daino- 
poulos perceived  it  sufficiently  well  to  make  allowance  for 
it — that  Mr.  Spokesly,  as  he  sat  beside  Archy  Bates  and 
listened  to  the  conversation,  had  experienced  a  sudden  ac- 
cess of  caution.    Archy  was  not  dnink,  and  as  far  as  was 


52  COMMAND 

humanly  known,  never  would  be  really  drunk;  but  he  was 
sufficiently  saturated  to  raise  a  certain  distrust  in  the  mind  of 
a  perfectly  sober  man.  It  may  even  be  said  that  while  Mr. 
Spokesly  had  no  clear  intention  of  deserting  his  chum  Archy, 
he  was  beginning  to  wish  that  Archy  were  not  indispensable  in 
any  scheme  that  might  be  proposed.  And  the  occasional  looks 
that  various  British  and  French  officers  cast  in  their  direc- 
tion made  Mr.  Spokesly  uneasy.  He  suddenly  realized  the 
other  aspect  of  making  money  in  a  shady  fashion:  that  one 
has  to  do  business  with  shady  people.  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  for 
example,  looked  extremely  shady.  Archy  Bates,  his  long, 
sharp  nose  buried  in  a  fresh  whiskey  and  soda,  his  hat  pushed 
back  revealing  the  oiled  graying  hair  parted  in  the  middle 
and  slicked  back  above  his  ears  with  their  purple  veins; 
Archy,  picking  dreamily  among  the  pieces  of  fish  and  beetroot 
which  had  been  served  on  little  dishes  with  the  drinks,  looked 
extraordinarily  like  a  rat  picking  at  garbage.  All  very  well, 
Mr.  Spokesly  reflected,  to  buy  hashish  and  sell  it  in  Egypt  at 
four  or  five  hundred  per  cent,  profit,  so  long  as  the  business 
could  be  transacted  in  a  gentlemanly  manner.  But  this  new 
development — ^he  did  not  see  his  way  clear  to  accepting 
Mr.  Dainopoulos  as  an  employer.  He  was  not  fastidious — 
he  had  worked  for  a  Chinese  ship  owner — but  the  officers  at 
the  other  tables,  in  their  inconceivably  correct  uniforms  and 
polished  harness,  made  him  uneasy.  Mr.  Spokesly  knew 
perfectly  well  that  these  people  did  not  consider  him  as  one 
of  themselves.  Even  amid  the  noise  and  chaffering  of  a 
Saloniki  cafe,  rubbing  shoulders  with  the  uniforms  of  French, 
Greek,  Serbian,  Russian,  and  Italian  officers,  these  men  of  his 
own  race,  he  knew,  never  forgot  the  abyss  that  separates  the 
seafaring  man  from  themselves,  the  social  crevasse  which  even 
Armageddon  was  powerless  to  abolish.  Nevertheless,  he 
felt  he  could  never  abandon  for  ever  the  possibility  of  entering, 
some  day,  the  magic  circle.  It  is  this  peculiarity  of  the 
English  temperament  which  so  often  paralyses  its  victim  at 
the  very  moment  when  he  needs  to  be  in  possession  of  all  his 
faculties,  when  the  chance,  perhaps  of  a  lifetime,  suddenly 
appears  at  his  elbow. 


COMMAND  53 

But  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  as  has  been  said,  could  size  a  man  up. 
He  was  intuitively  aware  that  he  had  made  no  great  im- 
pression upon  Mr.  Spokesly.  And  he  had  a  sp)ecial  desire, 
now  that  chance  had  thrown  them  together,  to  engage  the 
interest  of  a  skilled  navigator.  He  had  received  an  offer 
which  might  result  in  a  very  large  profit  indeed.  The  busi- 
ness to  which  he  had  been  referring,  a  mere  matter  of  running 
a  small  cargo  of  canned  goods  down  to  a  certain  island  and 
transferring  it  to  an  Austrian  submarine,  was  a  trifle.  One 
could  do  that  every  day,  right  under  the  noses  and  beards  of 
a  dozen  French  naval  officers.  This  was  a  much  bigger  affair. 
It  involved  the  sale,  at  huge  profit,  of  one  of  his  little  steamers 
which  he  had  purchased  for  a  song  from  the  French  early  in 
the  war,  but  it  also  involved  the  safe  conduct  of  the  vessel 
into  an  enemy  port.  His  friends  in  Anatolia  might  compen- 
sate him  ultimately  for  the  destruction  of  his  ship  by  an  Allied 
warship  and  the  crew  could  look  out  for  themselves;  but  if 
the  captain  lost  her  by  grounding,  it  would  be  a  disaster  of 
the  first  magnitude.  All  this  passed  through  the  nimble 
mind  of  Mr.  Dainopoulos  while  Mr.  Spokesly  waited  for  fur- 
ther light  on  the  nature  of  the  service  required.  He  saw  the 
difficulty  and,  knowing  the  English  character,  he  took  his 
measure  accordingly.     He  smiled. 

"You  come  to  my  house  and  have  some  supper?'*  he  re- 
marked.    "My  wife  would  be  pleased,  I'm  sure." 

Mr.  Spokesly  looked  at  Archy  Bates.  That  gentleman 
was  no  longer  paying  attention.  In  his  own  peculiar  fashion 
he  had  arrived  at  some  sort  of  intuitive  recognition  of  the 
fact  that  Mr.  Dainopoulos  had  no  intention  of  letting  him  in 
on  this  affair.  Well,  that  was  all  right,  Mr.  Bates  reflected 
in  one  of  those  appallingly  clear  and  coherent  moments  which 
suddenly  open  in  the  mentality  of  dipsomaniacs.  That  was 
all  right.  They  were  making  a  lot  of  money.  Big  risk  for 
him,  by  Jove!  but  he  was  willing  to  shoulder  it.  By  Jove! 
That  last  time  in  Port  Said,  when  the  police  rushed  into  his 
cabin  not  five  minutes  after  the  laundry  man,  who  also  took 
his  rake-off,  had  carried  the  stuff  ashore  in  a  boat-load  of  dirty 
sheets.     It  was  a  near  thing.     Two  hundred  quid  he  had 


54  COMMAND 

netted  over  that,  paid  in  Turkish  gold.  And  they  had  found 
the  bit  of  burlap  in  which  it  had  been  wrapped.  He  saw  the 
chief  of  police  now,  standing  there,  in  his  bright  red  fez,  and 
white  uniform,  legs  apart,  holding  the  thing  to  his  nose. 
Hashish,  by  Jove!  A  close  call!  "What's  this.?"  Mr. 
Bates  jumped  and  made  the  table  shake.  Mr.  Spokesly  was 
speaking.  For  a  moment  he  had  forgotten  where  he  was. 
Little  beads  of  sweat  stood  out  on  his  forehead.  He  smiled 
with  relief. 

"Shall  we  go?"  repeated  Mr.  Spokesly.  Somewhat  to  his 
surprise,  Mr.  Bates  shook  his  head.  He  was  still  smiling  with 
relief,  for  that  brief  moment,  during  which  his  consciousness 
had  slipped  back  a  couple  of  months,  as  it  were,  and  reenacted 
the  scene  in  his  cabin,  had  been  very  real.  Five  years  in  an 
Egyptian  penitentiary  missed  by  five  minutes  and  a  quick- 
witted explanation !  While  he  shook  his  head  and  smiled  into 
Mr.  Spokesly 's  face  he  was  thinking  that  he  would  take  twice 
as  much  this  time,  and  he  knew  where  to  hide  it.  Moreover, 
and  he  smiled  more  like  a  cat  than  ever,  the  millions  of  lines 
round  his  eyes  deepening,  he  reflected  that  if  Mr.  Spokesly 
went  in  on  this  there  was  practically  no  risk  at  all.     Nothing 

easier  than  to  say Eh,  what?     No !    He  was  going  along 

to  the  Amphitryon,  to  see  a  little  friend  of  his.  See  them 
later.     Aw — ri ! 

It  was  a  notable  feature  of  Mr.  Bates's  temperamental 
failing  that  it  never  affected  his  legs.  In  earlier  years,  as  a 
saloon  waiter,  he  had  often  astounded  his  shipmates  by  getting 
as  drunk  as  a  lord  before  dinner,  and  yet  going  down  the  long 
dining  saloon  of  a  great  liner,  a  plate  of  soup  in  each,  hand, 
and  depositing  them  in  front  of  passengers  in  evening  dress, 
without  ever  an  accident.  Perhaps  his  demeanour  was  a 
shade  more  deliberate,  his  attention  a  trifle  more  abstracted, 
on  these  occasions;  that  was  all.  And  now,  as  he  rose  and 
went  towards  the  door  of  Floka's,  after  a  dignified  farewell  to 
Mr.  Dainopoulos,  although  an  occasional  wandering  eye  fas- 
tened upon  him  for  a  moment,  Mr.  Bates  never  betrayed 
himself.  He  paused  courteously  at  the  door  while  a  major 
with  his  brigadier  in  tow  passed  in,  monocles  reflecting  the 


COMMAND  55 

light  in  a  blind  white  glare  so  that  they  resembled  Cyclops, 
and  then  he  walked  out  gently  himself,  and  was  immediately 
lost  in  the  noise  and  bustle  of  the  Place. 

Mr.  Dainopoulos  looked  at  Mr.  Spokesly  and  thrust  a 
thumb  into  the  armhole  of  his  coat. 

"Your  friend,*'  he  began  in  a  low  mutter,  "him  and  me  we 
do  big  business — ^you  understand? — ^but  all  the  same  he  drink 
too  much  highball.     No  good,  eh?" 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  "he's  his  own  master,  and  he 
can  please  himself  about  that.  To  tell  the  truth,  though,  if 
there's  anything  in — ^what  you  were  speaking  of,  I'd  just  as 
soon  he  wasn't  in  it.  You  see  what  I  mean?"  Mr.  Daino- 
poulos nodded  and  drew  at  his  narghileh.  "He's  a  friend  of 
mine,  and  very  good  friend,  too,  but  we  got  to  draw  a  line 
somewhere."  Again  Mr.  Dainopoulos  nodded  as  he  leaned 
across  the  table. 

"And  another  thing!"  he  remarked  in  his  muffled  tones, 
and  he  held  the  mouthpiece  of  the  narghileh  just  in  front  of 
his  lips  as  though  it  were  a  speaking  tube  and  he  was  engaged 
in  conversation  with  someone  at  the  other  end.  He  even 
cast  his  eyes  down,  and  seemed  to  abandon  Mr.  Spokesly 
entirely.  "And  another  thing.  Mr.  Bates,  he  very  fond — 
you  know — ^very  fond  of  the  mademoiselles.  That's  all  right. 
If  you  like  them,  very  good.  But  Mr.  Bates,  he  comes  all 
the  time  to  me.  Want  me — ^you  understand?  Now,  I  do 
no  business  in  that  line,  none  at  all.  I  don't  like  it.  Plenty 
men  tell  you,  *0h,  yes,  you  come  with  me.'  You  understand? 
But  me,  I  got  my  family  to  think  about.  Now  you  under- 
stand?" 

"It  is  not  respectable,"  added  Mr.  Dainopoulos  in  a  deep 
tone,  and  relapsed  into  silence  and  the  narghileh. 

Mr.  Spokesly  did  not  reply.  Even  when  they  had  left  the 
cafe  and  were  being  driven  along  the  quai  in  the  direction  of 
the  White  Tower,  on  their  left  the  dazzle  and  noise  of  cafes- 
chantant  and  cinemas,  on  their  right  the  intense  darkness  of 
the  Gulf,  he  did  no  more  than  acquiesce  in  what  Mr.  Daino- 
poulos was  saying.  For  to  tell  the  truth,  Mr.  Spokesly  was 
making  certain  readjustments  within  himself.     Neither  Mr. 


56  COMMAND 

Bates  nor  Mr.  Dainopoulos  was  of  vital  importance  to  the 
growth  of  his  soul,  yet  they  come  in  here.  They  were  back- 
grounds on  which  were  silhouetted  combinations  novel  to 
him.  He  had  to  find  room  in  his  mind  for  the  conception  of 
a  shady  person  who  cultivated  the  domestic  virtues.  Mr. 
Spokesly  might  be  a  man  of  inferior  calibre,  easily  swayed  by 
the  prospect  of  easy  money,  but  his  mind  swung  naturally 
to  the  equilibriums  of  respectability.  "All  that,"  as  he 
called  it,  "was  a  thing  o'  the  past."  He  was  tired  of  the 
shabby  and  meretricious  byways  he  had  frequented,  in  mod- 
eration, for  so  long.  With  more  knowledge  of  introspection 
he  would  have  known  this  as  one  of  the  signs  of  coming 
change.  Coming  events  are  very  often  a  glorified  reincarna- 
tion of  dead  desires.  Dreams  come  true.  Fortunate  men 
recognize  them  in  time. 

"Your  family.'^"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  and  the  man  beside 
him  turned  towards  him  and  said: 

"When  I  say  'family'  I  mean  'my  wife.'" 

Mr.  Spokesly  had  no  definite  image  in  his  mind  of  the 
domestic  arrangements  of  a  man  like  Mr.  Dainopoulos.  The 
scarlet  tarboosh  on  that  gentleman's  head  leaned  the  Enghsh- 
man's  fancy  to  a  harem.  In  any  case,  the  Island  Race  imag- 
ine that  every  Levantine  who  wears  a  fez  is  a  Turk,  that  every 
Turk  is  a  polygamist,  and  finally  that  polygamy  implies  a 
score  or  two  of  wives  locked  up  in  cupboards.  But  the  tone 
in  which  Mr.  Dainopoulos  uttered  the  word  '*wife"  precluded 
anything  of  this  sort.  It  was  a  tone  which  Mr.  Spokesly 
immediately  comprehended.  It  was  the  tone  in  which  Eng- 
lishmen refer  to  their  most  valued  possession  and  their  em- 
bodied ideals.  There  is  no  mistaking  it.  There  is  nothing 
like  it  in  the  world.  It  is  a  tone  implying  an  authorized  and 
expurgated  edition  of  the  speaker's  emotional  odyssey. 

"And  so,"  he  went  on,  "you  can  see  how  I  don't  want  to 
get  mixed  up  in  any  of  these  here  places."  And  he  opened  his 
hand  towards  the  subdued  glare  of  the  cafes  and  dance  halls. 
Mr.  Spokesly  saw.  He  saw  also,  in  imagination,  Archy  Bates 
sitting,  hand  to  moustache,  amid  the  chalk-faced  hetairai  of 
Saloniki,  second-rate  harpies  who  had  had  their  day  on  the 


COMMAND  57 

Parisian  trottoirsy  and  who  had  been  shipped  by  a  benevolent 
government  to  assuage  the  ennui  of  the  Armee  d'Orient.  He 
saw  them  from  time  to  time  with  his  physical  eyes,  too,  as 
they  came  to  the  doors  of  their  refuges  and,  setting  off  to  visit 
confederates,  flung  a  glance  of  shrewd  appraisal  towards  the 
passing  vehicle. 

"Yes,"  he  muttered.     "I  see,  Mr.—  Mr. " 

"Dainopoulos,"  said  that  gentleman. 

"Mr.  Dainopoulos,  I'm  no  saint,  y'understand,  but  all  the 
same — well,  a  man  wants  something,  y'understand?  Be- 
sides," added  Mr.  Spokesly,  "  'twixt  you  an'  me  an'  the  stern- 
post,  I'm  engaged." 

"You  don't  tell  me!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Dainopoulos  in  that 
peculiarly  gratifying  fashion  which  seemed  to  imply  that  this 
was  the  first  betrothal  announced  since  the  Fall  of  Constan- 
tinople. "You  don't  tell — and  I  bet  you  what  you  like  she's 
English,  eh.?" 

"Yes,  she's  English  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  feel- 
ing somewhat  embarrassed  by  his  friend's  triumphant  cor- 
diality. "Pretty  safe  bet,  that,"  he  added  as  the  carriage 
stopped  in  front  of  a  black,  solid  wooden  gate  in  a  high  yel- 
low wall. 

"Safe  enough?"  laughed  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  not  quite  seiz- 
ing the  point  intended.  "Why,  sure!  Englishwomen  are  the 
best  of  all.  I  ought  to  know.  Ha-ha!"  and  he  slapped  Mr. 
Spokesly 's  knee  while  his  other  hand  sought  the  price  of  the 
ride.  Mr.  Spokesly  failed  to  appreciate  this  approval  of 
Englishwomen.  A  suspicion  shot  through  his  mind.  He 
looked  at  the  dark  gate  in  the  yellow  wall.  What,  precisely, 
did  this  man  mean  by  that  last  remark?  Was  all  this  talk  of 
family  and  so  forth  a  blind?  Was  he,  Mr.  Spokesly,  on  the 
brink  of  an  adventure?  It  must  be  confessed  that  he  would 
not  have  objected  to  that;  but  his  gorge  rose  in  spite  of  him 
at  the  reference  to  Englishwomen. 

"I  don't  quite  understand,"  he  remarked  in  a  low  tone. 
"How  do  you  happen  to  know  so  much  about  'em?" 

Mr.  Dainopoulos  laughed  again  and  handed  the  fare  to  the 
driver.    He  stepped  out,  held  a  bunch  of  keys  to  the  light  of 


58  COMMAND 

the  carriage  lamp,  and  selected  one.     Then  he  beckoned  to 
Mr.  Spokesly  to  alight. 

"I'll  tell  you,  Mister,"  he  said,  as  he  stooped,  inserted  the 
key,  turned  it,  and  pushed  open  the  gate.  "Because  I  mar- 
ried one  myself ." 


CHAPTER  V 

MR.  SPOKESLY,  in  a  state  of  considerable  astonish- 
ment, sat  by  a  balconied  upper  window  and  tried  to 
get  his  recent  experiences  into  some  sort  of  focus. 
That  last  remark  of  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  that  he  had  married 
one  himself,  had  dislocated  his  guest's  faculties,  so  that  Mr. 
Spokesly  was  unable  to  note  clearly  by  what  means  he  had 
arrived  at  his  present  position,  a  balconied  window  on  his 
right  and  in  front  of  him  a  woman  lying  on  a  sofa.  A  woman 
whose  brown  hair,  extraordinarily  long  and  fine,  was  a  glossy 
pile  pressed  into  the  pillow,  and  whose  thin  hand  he  had  just 
relinquished. 

"Well,"  he  said,  as  Mr.  Dainopoulos  came  forward  with  a 
lamp,  his  swart  and  damaged  features  giving  him  the  air  of  a 
ferocious  genie  about  to  perform  some  nefarious  experiment. 
"Well,  I  must  say,  I'm  surprised." 

Mrs.  Dainopoulos  continued  to  gaze  straight  out  into  the 
darkness  over  the  Gulf. 

"Of  course,"  agreed  her  husband,  seating  himself  and 
reaching  for  a  large  briar  pipe.  "Of  course.  And  I'll  bet 
you'd  be  still  more  surprised  if  you  only  knew — eh,  Alice?" 
He  screwed  up  one  eye  and  looked  prodigiously  sly  at  his 
wife  with  the  other,  his  palms  slowly  rubbing  up  some  to- 
bacco. Mrs.  Dainopoulos  did  not  remove  her  eyes  from  the 
darkness  beyond  the  shore.  She  only  murmured  in  a  curt 
voice : 

"Never  mind  that  now,  Boris." 

"But  it  ain't  anything  to  be  ashamed  of,  you  know,"  he 
returned  earnestly,  packing  his  pipe  in  a  way  that  made 
Mr.  Spokesly  want  to  snatch  it  from  him  and  do  it  properly. 

"I  know,  but  it  wouldn't  interest  Mr.  Spokesly,  I'm  quite 
certain,"  she  muttered,  and  she  suddenly  looked  at  their 

59 


60  COMMAND 

visitor  and  smiled.  It  reassured  that  gentleman,  as  it  was 
intended  to  do,  that  he  was  in  no  way  responsible  for  this 
minute  difference  of  viewpoint  between  husband  and  wife. 
Mr.  Spokesly  smiled,  too. 

"Don't  mind  me,"  he  remarked,  lighting  a  cigarette  and 
offering  the  match  to  Mr.  Dainopoulos.  After  sucking  val- 
iantly for  a  while  and  achieving  a  small  red  glow  in  one 
corner  of  the  bowl,  the  latter  rose  and  regarded  his  wife  and 
his  guest  attentively  for  a  moment. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  he  said  at  length,  and  looked 
at  his  pipe,  which  was  already  out.  "I'll  go  in  and  see  Malleo- 
tis  for  a  while.  He'll  be  back  by  now.  And  you  two  can 
have  a  little  talk  before  we  have  supper." 

"Well,  don't  be  all  night.  You  know,  when  you  and  Mr. 
Malleotis  get  talking  business " 

The  woman  on  the  couch  paused,  regarding  her  husband  as 
he  bent  his  head  over  her.  Mr.  Dainopoulos  suddenly  put 
his  pipe  in  his  pocket  and  put  his  hands  on  either  side  of  the 
pillow.  Mr.  Spokesly  could  see  nothing  save  the  man's 
broad,  humped  shoulders.  There  was  a  moment  of  silence. 
Mr.  Spokesly,  very  much  embarrassed,  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow. When  he  turned  his  head  again  Mr.  Dainopoulos  was 
putting  on  a  large  tweed  cap  and  walking  out  of  the  door. 

"I  suppose,"  Mr.  Spokesly  remarked,  and  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  the  extremely  decorative  Scotch  travelling  rug  which 
covered  the  woman's  limbs,  "I  suppose  he  doesn't  go  off 
every  evening  and  leave  you  here."  He  spoke  jocosely. 
Mrs.  Dainopoulos  looked  out  into  the  darkness.  There  was 
a  faint  colour  in  her  cheeks,  as  though  the  sudden  revelation 
of  the  passion  she  could  evoke  had  filled  her  with  exquisite 
shame.  Or  perhaps  pride.  Her  clear,  delicate  English  face, 
the  mouth  barely  closed,  the  short  straight  nose  slightly 
raised,  the  brown  hair  spread  in  a  slight  disorder  upon  the 
pillow,  were  surely  indicating  pride.  Some  inkling  of  this 
possibility  came  to  Mr.  Spokesly,  and  he  sat  regarding  her, 
while  he  waited  for  her  to  speak,  and  wondering  how  a  woman 
like  her  had  come  to  marry  one  of  these  here  dagoes.  Peculiar 
creatures,  women,  Mr.  Spokesly  thought;  knowing  nothing 


COMMAND  61 

whatever  about  them,  it  may  be  mentioned.  And  when  Mrs. 
Dainopoulos  turned  to  look  at  him,  soon  after  she  began  to 
speak,  the  prevaihng  fancy  at  the  back  of  his  mind  was  "She 
thinks  I  don't  know  anything  about  the  ladies!  Fancy 
that!" 

"His  business  takes  him  out  a  good  deal,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  "but  he  wouldn't  go  if  he  could  help  it.  To-night  is 
unusual." 

"The  pleasure  is  mine,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly. 

"Not  altogether,"  she  smiled,  and  her  speech  became 
perceptibly  more  racy  and  rapid.  "Don't  flatter  yourself. 
Mr.  Dainopoulos  was  thinking  of  me." 

"I  dare  say  he  does  a  good  deal  of  that." 

The  woman  on  the  sofa  laced  her  fingers  lightly  and  re- 
garded her  guest  afresh. 

"You  are  saucy,"  she  murmured  with  a  faint  smile.  Mr. 
Spokesly  smiled  more  broadly.  He  was  saucy,  but  he  was 
certainly  at  home  now  with  his  companion.  There  was  in  her 
last  speech,  in  the  accent  and  inflection,  something  incom- 
municably  indigenous,  something  no  alien  ever  has  or  ever 
will  compass. 

"No  need  to  ask  what  part  of  England  you  come  from," 
he  ventured. 

"No?"  she  queried.  "There  seems  nothing  you  don't 
know." 

"Oh,  excuse  me,  Mrs.  Dainopoulos,  that  ain't  fair.  I 
can't  sit  here  and  twiddle  my  thumbs  all  the  evening,  can  I? 
That  wouldn't  be  giving  you  any  pleasure  as  far  as  I'm  aware. 
The  boss  didn't  reckon  I  was  going  to  play  a  mandolin  or  sing, 
did  he.?" 

"Well,  since  you're  so  clever,  what's  the  answer.?" 

"Not  so  very  many  miles  from  Charing  Cross,"  he  haz- 
arded. 

"Wonderful!"  she  said,  laying  her  head  back  and  smiling. 
Mr.  Spokesly  admired  the  pretty  throat.  "You  ought  to  be 
in  the  secret  service.     Perhaps  you  are,"  she  added. 

"Of  course,"  he  agreed.  "They've  sent  me  out  to  see 
where  all  the  nice  London  girls  have  got  to.     But  am  I  right?  " 


62  COMMAND 

She  nodded. 

"Haverstock  Hill,"  she  said  quietly. 

"No!  Do  you  know  Maf eking  Road.?^  When  I  was  a  kid 
we  lived  at  sixty-eight." 

"Yes,  I  know  it.     Don't  you  live  round  there  now.?" 

"No,  not  now.     We  live  down  Twickenham  way  now." 

And  Mr.  Spokesly  began  to  tell  his  own  recent  history, 
touching  lightly  upon  the  pathos  of  Eastern  exile,  the  journey 
home  to  join  up,  and  his  conviction  that  after  all  he  would  be 
a  fool  to  go  soldiering  while  the  ships  had  to  be  kept  running. 
And  he  added  as  a  kind  of  immaterial  postscript: 

"And  then,  o'  course,  while  I  was  at  home  I  got  engaged." 

Mrs.  Dainopoulos  stared  at  him  and  broke  into  a  brief 
titter  behind  a  handkerchief. 

"  Thai's  a  nice  way  to  give  out  the  information,"  she  re- 
marked. "  Anybody 'd  think  getting  engaged  was  like  buying 
a  railway  ticket  or  sending  a  postal  order.     Is  she  nice.^*" 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  "7  think  so." 

"Very  enthusiastic!"  commented  the  lady  with  consider- 
able spirit.     "Dark  or  fair?" 

"Well,"  he  repeated,  "I  should  say  dark  myself." 

"You  don't  intend  to  take  any  chances,"  Mrs.  Dainopoulos 
retorted.     "Haven't  you  a  photo  to  show  me?" 

Mr.  Spokesly  felt  his  pockets,  took  out  a  wallet  containing 
a  number  of  unconvincing  documents,  some  postage  stamps 
and  a  five-piaster  note. 

"Matter  of  fact,"  he  said,  "I  don't  seem  to  have  one  with 
me.  I  got  one  on  the  ship,  though,"  he  went  on.  "Bring  it 
ashore  to-morrow." 

"Sure  you  didn't  tear  it  up  by  mistake  or  send  it  away  in 
the  laundry?"  she  demanded,  watching  him  intently. 

"Oh,  all  right,  go  on  with  the  sarcasm,"  he  protested,  but 
enjoying  it  very  much  none  the  less.  "Mr.  Dainop>oulos, 
you'll  be  telling  me,  has  got  your  hair  in  a  locket,  I  suppose." 

Mr.  Spokesly  stopped  abruptly.  He  saw  an  expression  of 
extraordinary  radiance  on  the  girl's  face  as  she  lay  there,  her 
thin  pale  fingers  holding  the  handkerchief  by  the  corner.  It 
suddenly  occurred  to  Mr.  Spokesly  that  this  woman  was 


COMMAND  ea 

loved.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  became  aware  of  a. 
woman's  private  emotional  existence.  He  achieved  a  dim 
comprehension  of  the  novel  fact  that  a  woman  might  have 
her  own  views  of  these  great  matters.  He  did  not  phrase  it 
quite  Hke  this.  He  only  sat  looking  at  the  girl  on  the  sofa 
and  remarking  to  himself  that  women  were  peculiar. 

*'  Wouldn't  you  do  that  ?  "  she  demanded.  The  light  in  her 
eyes  diminished  to  a  steady  warm  regard. 

And  Mr.  Spokesly  began  to  assert  himself  once  more. 
Women  being  so  peculiar,  there  was  no  sense  in  being  bullied 
into  any  of  this  here  sentiment.  He  was  a  man  of  the  world 
about  to  make  a — what  was  it  called?  Marriage  of  con- 
venience .  .  .  something  like  that.  Not  that  exactly, 
either.  Ada  was  a  darned  fine  girl.  This  invalid  lady 
seemed  to  think  he  didn't  know  what  love  was. 

"Who?  Me?"  he  ejaculated.  "Can't  say  as  I  see  my- 
self, I  admit.  Not  in  my  line.  Not  in  any  Englishman's 
line,  I  don't  think.  And  speaking  for  myself,  Mrs.  Daino- 
poulos,  I  reckon  I'm  past  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know. 
Can't  teach  an  old  dog  new  tricks,  can  you?  I  look  at  it  this 
way:  so  long  as  there's  enough  to  keep  the  pot  boiling,  it's 
easy  enough  to  fall  in  love  with  anybody,  you  see,  and  when 
you're  married  .  .  .  soon  get  used  to  it.  Ada  and  me, 
we're  sensible.** 

"You've  got  it  all  arranged,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Dainopoulos, 
smiling  faintly  and  looking  out  into  the  darkness  once  more. 

"What's  the  use  o'  bein'  anything  else?"  inquired  Mr. 
Spokesly,  resuming  something  of  the  perfect  officer  pose, 
hard-bitten,  practical,  and  matter-of-fact.  "All  that  busi- 
ness o'  dyin'  o'  love,  you  know,  I  reckon 's  so  much  moon- 
shine. All  right  in  a  novel,  o'  course,  but  not  in  real  life. 
You  don't  reckon  there's  anything  in  it,  really,  I  mean?"  he 
asked  doubtfully. 

"I  think  everything's  in  it,"  she  sighed.  "I  think  it  must 
be  horrible,  being  married,  without  it.  Haven't  you  felt  you 
couldn't  do  without  her?  That  you'd  die  if  you  didn't  get 
her;  work,  and  do  somebody  else  in  the  eye  for  her?  Haven't 
you?" 


64  COMMAND 

"That  lets  me  out,"  he  said  soberly,  lighting  a  fresh  ciga- 
rette.    "I'm  not  guilty." 

There  was  a  brief  silence.  Mr.  Spokesly  was  puzzled. 
He  could  not  fit  this  experience  in  with  one  of  the  two  cardinal 
points  in  an  Englishman's  creed,  the  belief  that  no  English  girl 
can  really  love  a  foreigner.  The  other,  of  course,  is  that  no 
foreign  girl  is  really  virtuous. 

"That's  a  nice  thing  to  say!"  she  retorted,  trembling  a 
little  with  her  emotions.  "If  that's  the  new  way  they  have 
at  home " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  began  and  he  looked  at  her.  "I'm 
afraid  you're  getting  all  upset.  I'm  sorry,  really,  I  didn't 
think  you'd  have  been  so  serious  about  it.  As  if  it  mattered 
to  you!" 

"I'm  thinking  of  Aer,"  she  said  with  a  little  hysterical 
sob.     "You  mustn't " 

Mr.  Spokesly  was  in  a  quandary  again.  If  he  put  Ada's 
adoration  in  its  true  perspective,  he  would  not  think  very 
highly  of  himself.  He  took  no  real  pleasure  in  speaking  of 
himself  as  a  promised  man  even  to  a  married  woman.  Yet 
how  was  he  to  get  this  particular  married  woman  in  delicate 
health  and  extremely  robust  emotions  to  see  him  as  a  human 
being  and  not  a  monster  of  cold-blooded  caution.?  And  there 
was  another  problem.  What  of  this  new  and  astonishing 
revelation — new  and  astonishing  to  him,  at  any  rate — that 
love,  to  a  woman,  is  not  a  mere  decoction  of  bliss  administered 
by  a  powerful  and  benevolent  male,  but  a  highly  complicated 
universe  of  subjective  illusions  in  which  the  lover  is  only 
dimly  seen  as  a  necessary  but  disturbing  phantom  of  gross  and 
agonizing  ineptitudes?  The  wonder,  however,  is  not  that 
Mr.  Spokesly  was  slow  to  discover  this,  but  that  he  did  not 
live  and  die,  as  many  men  do,  without  even  suspecting  it. 
He  nodded  his  head  slightly  as  he  replied : 

"You're  right  in  a  way,"  he  muttered.  "She  thinks  I'm — 
well,  she  thinks  I'm  brave  to  go  to  sea  in  war-time!"  The 
extreme  incongruity  of  such  an  hallucination  made  him 
giggle. 

"She  would!    You  are!"  said  the  woman  on  the  couch, 


COMMAND  65 

almost  irritably.     "What  do  you  want  to  laugh  for?    Don't 
you  see  what  you  miss?"  she  added  in  illogical  annoyance. 

"That  the  way  you  feel  about  Mr.  Dainopoulos?"  Mr. 
Spokesly  asked.  The  woman  turned  her  face  so  that  the 
lamplight  illumined  her  coiled  hair  and  for  a  moment  she  did 
not  reply.    Then  she  said,  her  face  still  in  the  shadow: 

"You'd  only  laugh  if  I  told  you." 

"No,"  declared  Mr.  Spokesly.  "Honest  I  won't.  Laugh 
at  meself — ^yes.     But  you — that's  different." 

"But  you  don't  believe  in  love  at  first  sight,  I  can  see  very 
well." 

"I  only  said  I  hadn't  anything  Hke  that  happen  to  me," 
he  replied  slowly,  pondering.  "But  I  s'pose  it  has  to  be 
something  like  that  in  a  case  like  yours." 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"Well,  you  being  English,  you  see,  and  Mr.  Dainopoulos  a 
foreigner." 

"As  an  excuse,  I  suppose?  Father  made  the  same  remark, 
but  I  never  thanked  him." 

Mr.  Spokesly  looked  at  her  soberly.  Her  eyes  were  bright 
and  resolute,  and  the  lamplight  threw  into  salience  the  curve 
of  her  jaw  and  chin.  A  fugitive  thought  flitted  about  his 
mind  for  a  moment  and  vanished  again — ^whether  her  father 
was  inconsolable  at  his  daughter's  departure. 

"You  got  married  at  home  then?" 

"Yes,  after  Mr.  Dainopoulos  saved  my  life." 

"Did  he?" 

"Of  course.  That's  how  we  met.  Didn't  you  ever  hear 
of  the  Queen  Mab  accident?     It  was  in  the  papers." 

"Can't  say  as  I  did.     I  was  out  East  so  long,  you  see. 

Wait   a    bit,    though "     Mr.    Spokesly    pondered.     "I 

fancy  I  remember  reading  something  about  it  in  the  home 
papers;  an  excursion  steamer  in  collision  with  a  cargo  boat, 
wasn't  it?"     The  girl  nodded. 

"Down  the  river.  I  was  in  it.  My  sister — she  was 
drowned.     We  were  going  to  Southend." 

"I  see.     And  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  he  was  with  you  and " 

"No.     I'd  never  seen  him  then.     You  see,  we  were  all 


66  COMMAND 

standing  by  the  paddle-box  when  the  other  ship  cut  into  us, 
my  sister  Gladys  and  two  boys  we'd  been  keeping  company 
with.  It  was  something  awful,  everybody  screaming  and 
the  boat  going  up  in  the  air.  I  mean  the  other  end  was  going 
down.  At  last  we  couldn't  stand,  so  we  sat  on  the  paddle- 
box.  Then  all  of  a  sudden  the  boat  slid  over  to  one  side  and 
we  went  in." 

Mr.  Spokesly  made  a  sound  expressive  of  intense  sympathy 
and  interest. 

"And  next  thing  I  knew  was  somebody  was  holding  me  up 
and  he  said,  *Don't  move!  Don't  move!'  But  I  couldn't! 
Something  must  have  hit  me  when  I  fell  in.  I  didn't  know 
where  then — the  water  was  awfully  cold.  And  then  a  boat 
came,  and  they  lifted  me  in.  And  then  he  swam  off  again 
to  find  the  others.  I  don't  faint  as  a  rule,  but  I  did  then. 
There  were  so  many,  and  the  screams — oh,  it  was  shocking! 

"But  the  worst  was  when  we  got  on  land  again.  It  was 
near  Woolwich  and  they  turned  a  chapel  or  something  into 
a  hospital  for  us.  And  all  the  relations  of  the  people  on  the 
Queen  Mab  came  down,  and  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  who'd  taken 
his  landlady's  daughter  for  the  excursion,  was  sitting  there 
in  a  blanket  when  the  landlady  and  her  husband  came  in. 
They  hadn't  found  her.  You  know  bodies  don't  come  up 
sometimes,  especially  when  a  ship  turns  over.  And  they 
caught  hold  of  him,  calling  out  *  Where  is  our  girl?  What 
have  you  done  with  our  girl?'     They  screamed  at  him!" 

"Was  he  engaged  to  her?"  asked  Mr.  Spokesly. 

"Just  the  same  as  I  was  with  Georgie  Litwell  who  was 
drowned.     Keeping  company." 

"And  what  happened  then?'* 

"  Why,  we  fell  in  love.  That's  what  I  was  going  to  tell  you 
so  long  as  you  promised  not  to  laugh.  He  was  in  a  whole- 
sale tobacco  merchant's  in  Mark  Lane  then  and  he  took 
lodgings  near  us  at  Haverstock  Hill.  Those  other  people 
behaved  as  though  he'd  held  their  daughter's  head  under. 
Really  they  did.  How  could  he  help  it?  He  saved  six  be- 
sides me.     It  wasn't  his  fault  the  boat  sank." 

"No,  of  course  not.     I  see  now." 


COMMAND  67 

"And  then,  you  know,  Mother  made  a  fuss  because  he  was 
foreign.  Mother's  a  Berkshire  woman,  and  she  said  she'd 
never  thought  she'd  Hve  to  see  a  child  of  hers  marry  a  man 
from  goodness  knows  where.  She  didn't  half  go  on,  I  can  tell 
you.  And  Father  had  his  own  way  of  making  me  perfectly 
happy.  He'd  ask  me,  how  many  in  the  harem  already? 
And  I  couldn't  do  a  thing,  lying  on  my  back  helpless.  And 
at  last,  with  the  doctor  saying  I  needed  a  sea-voyage  to  get 
my  strength  back,  I  thinks  to  myself,  I'll  take  one;  and  with 
the  accident  insurance  I  had  had  the  sense  to  carry  ever 
since  I'd  started  going  to  business,  and  what  Boris  had  in  the 
bank,  we  went.  Or  came,  rather.  We've  been  here  ever 
since  and  nobody's  heard  either  of  us  regret  it,  either." 

And  as  she  lay  there  looking  out  into  the  darkness  of  the 
Gulf  with  shining  resolute  eyes,  it  was  plain  that  this  ro- 
mantic destiny  of  hers  was  a  treasured  possession.  It 
dominated  her  life.  She  had  found  in  it  the  indispensable 
inspiration  for  happiness,  an  ethical  yet  potent  anodyne  for 
the  forfeiture  of  many  homely  joys.  It  was  for  her  the 
equivalent  of  a  social  triumph  or  acceptance  among  peeresses 
of  the  realm.  It  is  to  be  suspected  that  she  had  ever  in  her 
mind  a  vision  of  the  wonder  and  awe  she  had  evoked  in  the 
souls  of  the  suburban  girls  among  whom  she  had  spent  her 
life,  and  that  this  vision  supported  her  and  formed  the  base 
of  a  magnificent  edifice.  And  it  was  an  integral  part  of  this 
edifice  that  love  should  be  a  romantical  affair,  a  flame,  noted 
by  all  and  fed  by  the  adoration  of  a  husband  who  was  harsh 
to  the  world,  but  to  her  a  monster  of  infatuated  fidelity. 

Something  of  this  impinged  upon  Mr.  Spokesly's  conscious- 
ness and  he  regarded  her  for  a  moment  with  profound  re- 
spect. 

"I  should  say,"  he  muttered,  returning  to  his  cigarette, 
"you  haven't  done  so  badly  for  yourself." 

She  gave  him  an  extraordinarily  quick  look,  like  a  flash  of 
sheet  lightning  from  a  calm  evening  sky,  which  left  him 
puzzled.  He  was  not  aware,  at  that  time,  that  no  woman 
will  ever  admit  she  has  bettered  herself  by  marrying  a  given 
man.    She  must  retain  for  ever  that  shining  figure  of  him  she 


68  COMMAND 

might  have  loved,  a  sort  of  domestic  knight-errant  in  golden 
armour,  who  keeps  occasional  vigils  at  her  side  while  the 
weary  actuality  slumbers  in  gross  oblivion.  Mrs.  Dainopou- 
los  knew  that  Mr.  Spokesly  saw  nothing  of  this.  She  knew 
him  for  what  he  was,  a  being  entirely  incapable  of  compassing 
the  secrets  of  a  woman's  heart.  She  knew  he  imagined 
that  love  was  all,  that  women  were  at  the  mercy  of  their  love 
for  men,  and  that  chivalrous  ideas,  rusted  and  clumsily 
manipulated,  were  still  to  be  found  in  his  mind.  And  she 
saw  the  fragility  and  delicate  thinness  of  his  love  affair  with 
Ada  Rivers.  Anything  could  break  it,  anything  could 
destroy  it,  she  reJflected.  Those  fancies  ...  of  course 
he  said  he  was  engaged;  but  an  engagement,  as  Mrs. 
Dainopoulos  knew,  having  lived  in  a  London  suburb,  was 
nothing.  Yes,  anything  might  make  him  forget  Ada.  And 
as  she  repeated  the  word  "anything"  to  herself  in  a  kind 
of  ecstasy,  Mrs.  Dainopoulos  turned  her  head  quickly  and 
listened.     There  was  a  sound  of  someone  being  admitted. 

"So  you've  met  your  fate,  anyway,"  she  observed  to  Mr. 
Spokesly,  yet  still  listening  to  the  distant  sound. 

"Yes,"  he  said  with  a  smile,  "I  reckon  you  can  cross  me 
off  as  caught.  What's  that?  Come  back,  I  s'pose.  Time 
for  me  to  be  off,  anyway.     I'm  sure.     .     .     ." 

Mrs.  Dainopoulos  held  up  her  hand.  She  was  still  listening 
with  her  head  slightly  inclined,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  Mr. 
Spokesly,  as  though  absently  pondering  the  perilous  chances 
of  his  emotional  existence.  Cross  him  off  as  caught!  She 
smiled  again  in  that  lambent  heat-lightning  way  of  hers.  A 
woman  who  spends  her  life  in  a  reclining  seclusion  becomes 
very  much  of  a  clairvoyant,  an  electric  condenser  of  emotions. 
Mr.  Spokesly  was  agreeably  flattered  by  the  intent  interest 
of  his  companion's  gaze.  Quite  a  nice  little  tete-a-tete  he'd 
had.  It  gave  him  a  thrill  to  sit  in  intimate  exchange  of  love 
experiences  with  an  attractive  married  woman,  even  if  she 
was  an  invalid.  He  felt  a  bit  of  a  dog.  He  would  write  to 
Ada  and  tell  her.  Or  would  he?  Did  he  want  Ada  to  know 
anything  about  this  visit  to  a  mysterious  house  in  Macedonia, 
a  house  so  clandestine  and  bizarre  he  could  scarcely  convince 


COMMAND  69 

himself  that  it  was  the  abode  of  virtue?  Did  he?  Ada  was 
a  long  way  off,  in  beleaguered  England.  He  suddenly  won- 
dered what  Ada  had  to  do  with  this  at  all.  With  an  ease  that 
rather  disturbed  him  he  told  himself  that  you  could  never  tell 
what  might  happen  nowadays.  No  use  worrying  about  the 
future.  Why,  he  might  never  get  home.  He  dropped  the 
ash  from  his  cigarette  into  the  tray  on  the  table.  Someone 
was  coming  with  a  quick  decisive  step  up  the  stairs.  He 
smiled  at  Mrs.  Dainopoulos,  not  quite  sure  why  she  was 
holding  up  her  hand.  She  was  thinking  '*  cross  him  off  as 
caught,"  and  smiling,  when  the  someone  arrived  at  the  door 
and  knocked. 

"Why  didn't  you  get  married  before  you  left  England?" 
she  asked  quickly,  and  added  in  louder  tone,  "Come 
in!" 

In  sharp  contrast  to  the  rapid  movements  without,  the  door 
opened  with  extreme  cautiousness,  and  at  first  nothing  could 
be  seen  save  the  hand  on  the  knob.  Mr.  Spokesly  had  been 
thrown  into  some  disorder  of  mind  by  that  last  question. 
Why  hadn't  he,  anyway?  It  was  something  he  had  never 
decided.  Why  had  they  not  done  what  thousands  had  done 
in  England,  which  was  simply  to  marry  on  the  spot  and  sail 
a  week,  or  perhaps  a  few  days,  later?  Why  had  he  not  taken 
the  hazards  of  war?  He  had  more,  far  more,  than  many  of 
those  girls  and  boys  at  home.  It  was  at  this  point,  facing  for 
the  first  time  the  unconscious  evasions  of  life,  that  he  found 
himself  facing  something  else,  a  girl  with  a  startled  and 
indignant  light  in  her  eyes.  He  uncrossed  his  legs  and  began 
to  rise  as  Mrs.  Dainopoulos  said,  "Come  in,  Evanthia.  It  is 
all  right." 

She  came  in,  letting  the  door  swing  to  as  she  moved  with  a 
long  rapacious  stride  towards  the  sofa.  It  was  obvious  she 
was  preoccupied  with  some  affair  of  intense  importance  to 
herself.  Once  Mr.  Spokesly's  presence  had  been  indicated 
she  became  again  absorbed  in  her  errand.  Her  amber- 
coloured  eyes,  under  exquisitely  distinct  brows,  were  opaque 
with  anger,  and  she  held  one  hand  out  with  the  fingers 
dramatically  clenched,  as  though  about  to  release  a  thunder- 


70  COMMAND 

bolt  of  wrath.  The  gesture  was  as  antique  as  it  was  in- 
voluntary. One  heard  drums  muttering  and  the  gathering 
of  fierce  ^gean  winds  as  she  came  on,  and  leaning  forward, 
flung  out  both  hands  in  a  passionate  revelation  of  sorrow. 
Mr.  Spokesly  sat  down  again,  embarrassed  and  fascinated. 
He  could  not  take  his  eyes  from  her.  She  was  something  new 
in  his  experience;  a  woman  with  passion  and  the  power  to 
express  it.  Such  women  are  almost  non-existent  in  England, 
where  sentiment  is  regarded  as  legal  tender  for  passion.  He 
regarded  her  with  a  kind  of  stupefaction,  as  though  he  had 
never  set  his  eyes  on  a  woman  before.  One  might  say  with 
approximate  truth  that  he  had  not.  His  ways  had  lain 
among  the  artificial  products  of  his  age.  In  trepidation  he 
realized,  as  he  sat  there  watching  the  movements  of  this  girl, 
that  he  would  not  know  what  to  do  with  a  woman  like  that. 
He  sat  there  and  listened. 

"Gone?"  repeated  Mrs.  Dainopoulos. 

"Yes,  they  are  all  gone.  The  French  sent  soldiers.  And 
they  would  not  let  me  go  to  speak  to  him." 

"But  where  will  they  go?" 

The  girl,  whose  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  carpet  at  her  feet, 
shrugged  her  shoulders  violently. 

"Who  knows  that?  To  Sofia;  or  to  Constantinople.  Oh, 
I  would  have  gone,  too.  These  pigs,  pigs,  pigs  of  French ! 
Not  a  word!  And  he  is  gone!"  She  dragged  a  chair  from 
the  table,  and  sat  down  suddenly,  thrusting  her  chin  over  her 
arm  and  staring  at  the  floor.  There  was  a  moment's  silence, 
while  Mr.  Spokesly  sat  in  doubt  and  Mrs.  Dainopoulos 
looked  out  over  the  Gulf. 

"Gone!"  muttered  the  girl  again  sullenly. 

"Don't  do  that,  dear.  It  is  very  bad  for  you  when  you 
get  in  such  rages!"  Mrs.  Dainopoulos  spoke  in  a  soft  cool 
tone,  like  a  recumbent  sybil  whose  knowledge  of  rage  and 
sorrow  was  vast.  The  girl's  foot  swung  to  and  fro  more  and 
more  rapidly,  the  red  Turkish  slipper  slapping  the  floor, 
"You  will  hear  from  him  after  a  little." 

"Ah,  if  they  let  him  write.  But  these  French !  With  their 
beards  and  hats  like  cooking  pots!    They  see  everything. 


COMMAND  71 

Of  course  he  will  write,  but  that  is  no  good.  He  cannot  send 
anything." 

An  expression  of  disappointment  crossed  the  other  woman's 
face  as  she  patted  the  girl's  shoulder. 

"Wait  a  little,"  she  said.     *'You  can't  tell  yet." 

"  I  would  have  given  a  thousand  drachma  to  have  got  to  the 
train,"  said  the  girl  moodily.  "And  I  would  give  a  million 
to  get  to  Constantinople.  This  place  stifles  me.  I  hate 
it     .     .     .     hate  it." 

She  stood  up  suddenly,  raising  her  hands  to  her  magnificent 
coil  of  dark  hair,  and  revealing  the  poise  and  vigour  of  her 
body.  "Ah!"  she  moaned,  bending  over  her  friend  and 
caressing  her.  "I  am  a  bad  girl,  forgetting  how  ill  you  are. 
Evanthia  is  a  bad,  bad  girl,  with  her  troubles — and  you  have 

a  visitor "    She  turned  her  head  for  a  moment  and  Mr. 

Spokesly  was  caught  imawares  in  the  brilliance  of  a  dazzling 
yet  enigmatic  glance  from  the  amber  eyes. 

"A  friend  of  my  husband's,"  said  Mrs.  Dainopoulos. 
"He  is  English,  you  know,  like  me.  From  London.  We 
have  been  talking  of  London." 

"Ah,  yes!"  The  Hngering  syllables  were  a  caress,  yet 
there  was  no  more  comprehension  in  them  than  in  the 
inarticulate  sounds  of  an  animal.  The  girl  bent  her  dark 
head  over  the  blonde  masses  on  the  pillow.  "Forgive  your 
bad  girl,  Alice." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  Mrs.  Dainopoulos,  emerging  with  an 
embarrassed  English  smile.  "Only  you  must  be  good  now 
and  go  back  to  bed.     There's  Boris  coming  in." 

"I  am  going!"  said  the  girl  and  started.  And  then  she 
remembered  Mr.  Spokesly  sitting  there  in  dumb  stupefaction, 
his  gaze  following  her,  and  she  turned  to  make  him  a  bow  with 
a  strange,  charming  gesture  of  an  out-flung  hand  towards  him. 
The  next  moment  she  dragged  the  door  open  and  passed  out. 

He  looked  up  to  see  Mrs.  Dainopoulos  regarding  him 
thoughtfully,  and  he  made  a  sudden  step  forward  in  life  as 
he  realized  the  ineffectiveness  of  any  words  in  his  vocabulary 
to  express  his  emotions  at  that  moment.  He  made  no 
attempt  to  corrupt  the  moment,  however,  which  was  perhaps 


72  COMMAND 

another  step  forward.  He  sat  silent,  looking  at  the  glowing 
end  of  his  cigarette,  endeavouring  to  recapture  the  facile 
equilibrium  of  mind  which  had  been  his  as  he  followed  Mr. 
Dainopoulos  through  the  gateway  an  hour  or  so  before.  But 
that  was  impossible,  for  it  was  gone,  though  he  did  not  know 
it,  for  ever.  He  was  trying  to  remember  the  name  Mrs. 
Dainopoulos  had  called  her.  Evanthia!  And  once  at  the 
beginning.  Miss  Solaris.  Something  like  that.  Evanthia 
Solaris.  He  said  to  himself  that  it  was  a  pretty  name,  and 
was  conscious  at  the  same  time  of  the  inadequacy  of  such  a 
word.  There  was  something  beyond  prettiness  in  it;  some- 
thing of  a  spring  morning  in  the  Cyclades,  when  the  other 
islands  come  up  out  of  the  mist  like  hummocks  of  amethyst 
and  the  cicadas  shrill  in  the  long  grass  under  the  almond  trees. 
There  was  in  it  an  adumbration  of  youth  beyond  his  experi- 
ence, a  hint  of  the  pulsing  and  bizarre  vitality  of  alien  races,  a 
vitality  fretted  into  white  wrath  by  her  will  and  her  desire,  as 
the  serene  breath  of  the  morning  is  suddenly  lashed  into  a 
tempest  by  the  howling  fury  of  an  iEgean  white  squall.  She 
was  gone,  yet  the  room  was  still  charged  with  her  magnetic 
presence,  so  that  Mr.  Dainopoulos  came  in  quietly,  put 
down  his  tweed  cap,  and  seated  himself  beside  his  wife,  and 
Mr.  Spokesly  scarcely  noticed  his  arrival. 

As  he  became  aware  of  outside  phenomena  once  more — and 
he  was  rather  frightened  to  discover  how  his  thoughts  had 
flown  out  into  the  unknown  darkness  in  search  of  the  girl — 
he  saw  that  Mr.  Dainopoulos  was  preoccupied  and  anxious. 
They  were  speaking  in  a  low  tone  and  in  a  foreign  tongue, 
Mr.  Spokesly  noted.  He  recalled  a  story  he  had  read  in  a 
magazine  some  little  time  before — sl  story  of  an  Englishman 
who  had  a  most  miraculous  command  of  foreign  languages, 
who  overheard  a  conversation  which  revealed  a  plot  to 
destroy  the  British  Army.  The  plot  was  revealed  by  the 
simple  process  of  torturing  a  beautiful  girl  of  neutral  origin 
who  was  to  be  forced  to  marry  a  brutal  enemy  colonel.  It 
did  not  occur  to  Mr.  Spokesly  to  reflect  that  beautiful  girls 
are  usually  eager  to  marry  colonels  of  any  denomination,  or 
that  colonels  do  not  usually  blend  love  and  espionage.     But 


COMMAND  7S 

he  did  notice  the  extreme  improbability  of  an  Englishman 
being  a  linguist.  It  made  the  tale  seem  unreal  and  artificial. 
Especially  when  the  story  added  that  he  was  a  naval  oflficer  of 
good  family  who  afterwards  married  the  beautiful  neutral 
and  settled  in  a  castle  in  Dalmatia.  Fanciful !  Mr.  Spokesly 
knew  enough  of  naval  oflScers  to  doubt  the  denouement.  He 
himself,  for  that  matter,  would  rather  live  in  a  bungalow  in 
Twickenham  than  in  Dalmatia.  As  for  foreign  girls — he 
rubbed  his  chin,  puzzled  over  his  own  blurred  sensations. 
Mr.  Dainopoulos  was  speaking  again.  The  woman  lay 
back,  looking  up  at  the  high  ceiling,  an  expression  of  calm 
and  careful  consideration  on  her  face,  which  was  illuminated 
sharply,  like  an  intaglio,  by  the  lamp.  And  Mr.  Spokesly 
experienced  a  shock  to  discover  that  they  were  not  speaking 
of  the  girl  at  all.  They  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her  ex- 
istence. They  looked  at  him  and  so  brought  him  into  the 
conversation. 

"I'll  have  to  be  getting  back,"  he  remarked,  rising  once 
more. 

Mr.  Dainopoulos  went  to  the  door  and  spoke  in  a  low  harsh 
tone  into  the  darkness. 

"I'll  get  you  a  boat,"  he  said.  "There's  no  boats  allowed 
after  dark,  but  I  have  a  friend  on  the  French  Pier.  He'll  put 
you  on  board.  Another  night,  you  must  come  and  eat 
supper.  I  have  had  plenty  business  to-night.  I  have  to  go 
out  again  later,  too.  You  understand  what  I  tell  my  wife? 
Well,  the  consuls  have  had  to  go  home.  The  German  and 
Austrian  and  Bulgar  Consuls  went  away  to-night.  I  do  a 
good  bit  of  business,  you  understand,  with  all  these  people, 
and  I  got  to  go  and  see  a  friend  of  mine  about  it.     So — will 

you  have  coffee ?    I'll  get  you  a  boat  first,  and  you  can 

come  to-morrow  night,  eh?" 

A  girl  of  fifteen  with  a  downcast  disdainful  countenance 
came  in  with  a  tray  and  set  it  on  the  table.  One  eyelash 
flickered  towards  Mr.  Spokesly  as  she  turned  and  made  her 
way  out.  He  looked  at  her  entranced,  noting  her  slovenly 
dress,  the  holes  in  her  stocking,  and  the  ugly  slippers  that 
slip-slopped  as  she  moved  her  small  feet.     He  noted  these 


74  COMMAND 

uncouth  garnitures  within  which  she  moved  with  the  restless 
yet  indolent  rhythm  of  a  captive  queen.  His  mind,  as  he 
drank  the  strong  coffee  and  the  tiny  glass  of  cognac,  was  in  a 
state  of  unusual  exaltation.  Never  before  had  he  faced 
an  immediate  future  so  fraught  with  glittering  yet  un- 
recognizable possibilities.  Mr.  Dainopoulos  might  be  a 
rascal,  yet  he  possessed  the  power  to  call  up  familiar  spirits. 
As  he  sat  there  leaning  towards  the  table,  his  hand  abstract- 
edly on  the  bottle  of  cognac,  thinking  deeply  of  his  multi- 
farious concerns,  his  dexterous  dealings  in  and  out  among 
men  who  slew  one  another  daily,  he  resembled  some  saturnine 
yet  benevolent  magician  about  to  release  a  formidable  genie 
who  would  fill  the  room  with  fuliginous  vapour.  Mr. 
Spokesly  felt  his  scalp  twitching  with  anticipation.  He 
stepped  across  to  say  good-bye  to  Mrs.  Dainopoulos. 

**I  never  expected  this,"  he  said  simply.  "I've  had  a  very 
pleasant  time.'* 

"Come  to  supper  to-morrow,"  she  said,  smiling,  "Always 
glad  to  see  anybody  from  the  Old  Country." 

"Sorry  your  lady  friend  couldn't  stay,"  he  muttered. 
"Like  to  see  more  of  her.  Well  .  .  .  I'll  say  good- 
night." 

He  smiled  as  he  went  down  the  staircase  behind  the  pre- 
occupied Mr.  Dainopoulos.  He  smiled  because  he  could  see, 
by  virtue  of  his  exalted  mood,  that  the  smug  phrases  which 
had  always  been  adequate  for  his  emotions,  sounded  foolish 
and  feeble.  Like  to  see  more  of  her !  Did  he?  It  made  him 
dizzy  to  think  of,  though,  for  all  that.  It  made  the  simple 
business  of  returning  to  that  house  an  adventure  of  the  soul. 
Nor  did  the  phrase  "lady  friend"  describe  her.  He  was 
comfortably  vague  as  to  the  actual  constituents  of  a  lady.  A 
lady  was  perhaps  described  as  a  woman  with  whom  it  was 
impossible  to  be  wholly  at  ease.  Yes,  he  whispered  to  him- 
self, but  for  a  different  reason.  He  felt  defeated  in  his 
attempts  to  stabilize  his  impressions.  He  had  no  compari- 
sons. It  was  like  comparing  a  bottle  of  wine  with  a  bottle 
of  milk.  Even  Ada  ...  He  moved  so  abruptly  as 
he  followed  close  on  the  heels  of  Mr.  Dainopoulos  that  the 


COMMAND  75 

latter  looked  at  him  in  inquiry,  and  thought  a  remark  was 
necessary. 

"We  can  fix  our  little  business  any  time  before  you  go 
away,"  he  murmured. 

But  Mr.  Spokesly  was  not  thinking  of  the  little  business 
just  then.  He  found  himself  suddenly  confronting  the  con- 
viction in  his  mind  that  his  Ada  had  been  little  more  than  a 
shining  reflector  of  his  own  image.  Ada,  in  beleaguered  Eng- 
land, seemed  very  far  away  and  her  personality  lost  whatever 
distinction  and  magnetism  it  may  have  had  while  he  was  with 
her.  He  saw  with  perfect  clarity  a  new  truth  beyond  that 
first  one — that  Mrs.  Dainopoulos  had  been  aware  of  all  this 
while  she  had  plied  her  gentle  smiling  questions.  Had  she 
meant  anything,  then?  How  could  one  plumb  the  mind  of  a 
woman?  There  was  something  almost  sinister  in  the  notion 
that  she  had  known  all  along  how  he  was  situated,  how  he 
felt,  and  let  him  sit  there  while  a  girl  like  an  indignant  en- 
chantress came  in  and  worked  some  sort  of  spell  upon  him. 
He  began  to  wonder  if  the  girl  was  real;  whether  he  had  not 
dreamed  she  was  there.  He  was  aghast  at  the  insensibility 
of  Mr.  Dainopoulos  who  was  leading  the  way  across  the  street, 
his  head  bent  and  his  damaged  features  set  in  a  meditative 
scowl.  In  what  way  could  one  account  for  it?  A  woman 
like  that !  A  woman  already  with  a  power  over  himself  that 
frightened  him.  Ada !  He  thought  of  Ada  alm.ost  as  a  refuge 
from  this  new  emotion  assaulting  his  heart.  There  was  safety 
with  Ada.  He  knew,  within  reasonable  limits,  the  range  of 
which  she  was  capable,  the  tone  and  timbre  of  her  soul. 
Here,  he  comprehended  with  surprising  readiness,  he  would 
be  called  on  to  do  something  more  than  talk  conventionally 
of  love.  It  was  all  very  well,  he  could  see,  to  jog  along  from 
year  to  year,  having  a  little  fun  here  and  there,  and  getting 
engaged  and  even  married;  but  it  was  no  more  than  the  nor- 
mal function  of  a  human  organism.  Beyond  that  he  could 
see  something  ruthless,  powerful,  and  destructive.  He  ex- 
perienced an  extraordinary  feeling  of  elation  as  he  walked 
beside  Mr.  Dainopoulos  towards  the  street  car.  He  was 
perplexed  because  he  would  have  liked  to  tell  Ada  the  cause 


76  COMMAND 

of  this  elation.  He  had  a  fugitive  but  marvellously  clear 
view  of  Ada's  position  in  the  matter.  She  was  away  in  the 
future,  in  a  distant  and  calm  region  to  which  he  had  not  yet 
gained  admission.  There  was  something  he  had  to  go 
through  before  he  could  get  Ada.  And  while  they  jangled 
slowly  along  the  quay,  and  Mr.  Dainopoulos  mumbled  in  his 
ear  the  difficulties  imposed  upon  himself  by  the  departure  of 
the  consuls,  Mr.  Spokesly  caught  a  glimpse  of  what  men  mean 
by  Fate.  Though  he  knew  it  not,  the  departure  of  the  con- 
suls was  an  event  of  prime  importance  to  himself.  It  was  an 
event  destined  to  precipitate  the  grand  adventure  of  his  life. 
Ada,  in  beleaguered  England,  would  find  her  mechanically 
perfect  existence  modified  by  the  departure  of  the  consuls. 
Something  he  had  to  go  through.  He  stared  out  at  the 
shaded  lights  of  the  cafes  and  failed  to  notice  that  he  no  longer 
desired  the  tarnished  joys  of  the  sea-faring  boulevardier. 
Here  was  a  new  motive.  The  facile  and  ephemeral  affairs  of 
his  life  were  forgotten  in  their  sheer  nothingness.  He  drew 
a  deep  breath,  wondering  what  lay  in  store  for  him. 

They  left  the  car  and  passed  through  the  gates  of  the  dock, 
along  roadways  almost  incredibly  muddy,  to  where  trans- 
ports worked  in  the  cautious  twilight  of  blue  electrics  and 
picket-boats  moved  up  and  down  gently  where  they  were 
made  fast  to  the  steps,  their  red  and  green  side-lights  giving 
the  quiet  stealthy  hustle  of  the  quays  an  air  of  brisk  alertness. 
Tall  negroes,  in  blue-gray  uniforms  and  red  fezzes,  moved  in 
slow  lines  loaded  with  sections  of  narrow-gauge  track  and 
balks  of  timber,  or  pushed  trucks  of  covered  material.  At  a 
desk  in  a  wooden  office  sat  a  French  ajutanty  a  blinding  tung- 
sten globe  illuminating  the  short  black  hairs  rucked  up  over 
his  stiff  braided  collar  and  reflecting  from  an  ivory-bald  spot  on 
his  head  as  he  spoke  into  a  telephone.  Mr.  Dainopoulos  slid 
sideways  into  the  room  and  sat  down  on  a  bench  by  the  door. 
The  officer's  eye  flickered  towards  his  visitor  and  he  lifted  a 
hand  slightly  to  indicate  recognition.  Mr.  Spokesly  stepped 
in  and  sat  down.  On  the  wall  was  a  drawing  cut  from  the 
Vie  ParisiennCy  a  nude,  with  exaggerated  limbs  and  an  enor- 
mous picture-hat,  riding  on  a  motorcycle.     The  shriek,  as  of 


COMMAND  77 

a  soul  in  torment,  of  a  French  Ibcomotive,  brought  a  scowl 
to  the  oflScer's  face  as  he  conversed  with  his  friends  at  the 
Cercle  Militaire.  Ringing  off  with  a  fat  chuckle  he  demanded 
in  rapid  French  how  his  old  one  was  making  it.  The  old  one, 
who  was  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  made  no  definite  complaint,  but 
commented  on  the  fact  that  a  man  could  not  sit  in  Floka*s 
and  take  a  little  drink  with  a  friend  without  a  certain  person, 
with  a  luxuriant  beard,  taking  especial  note  of  it.  The  aju- 
tant  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  tipped  it,  his  heels  grind- 
ing the  boards,  and  grunted.  That,  he  mumbled,  was  only 
to  be  expected  of  Pere  Lefrote.  Well,  what  was  it  now.'* 
Mr.  Dainopoulos  indicated  his  companion,  an  officer  from  the 
English  ship  arrived  to-day,  now  anchored  in  the  rade. 
"What  ship?"  muttered  the  officer,  looking  Mr.  Spokesly 
over  as  though  he  were  some  unsavoury  mongrel.  From 
Alexandria,  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  skilfully  evading  such  an 
impossible  word  as  Tanganyika.  "Ah-ha!"  crowed  the 
officer,  transferring  his  cold  regard  to  his  old  one.  So  the  old 
one  was  on  that  game  again.  By  the  sacred  blue,  he  was  a 
great  old  cock.  And  the  officer,  getting  up,  expressed  his 
conviction  very  fast  that  if  the  truth  were  only  revealed,  the 
old  one  could  do  a  neat  business  in  poulets  de  luxe  as  well. 
What.'^  The  truculent  officer,  halting  at  the  door,  his  thumb 
and  finger  busy  with  his  moustache,  looked  back  over  his 
shoulder  at  his  old  one.  No,  said  the  latter,  he  merely  re- 
peated what  he  had  said  so  many  times.  He  knew  none  of 
those  creatures,  though  he  admitted  three  had  arrived  on  the 
transport  Jumieges  that  morning.  Was  that  so?  Where 
were  they,  then?  At  the  Omphale  or  the  Tour  Blanche? 
Come  now!  Mr.  Dainopoulos  lit  a  cigarette  and  as  he  trod 
carefully  on  the  smoking  match  murmured  his  conviction  that 
the  ladies,  whom  a  friend  of  his  had  seen  land  at  Venizelos 
Steps,  entered  automobiles,  and  might  not  be  found  at  the 
Omphale  for  some  time.  The  officer  drummed  at  the  door 
and  nodded.  True,  but  the  old  one  knew  of  some  ravishing 
creature  surely  who  would  respond  to  the  delicate  attentions 
of  a  lonely  exile.  A  marraine,  in  fact.  But  the  old  one  had 
no  such  clients.     He  was  a  man  of  business  purely.     And  if 


78  COMMAND 

it  could  be  arranged  his  friend  here  would  like  to  be  put  on 
board. 

The  officer,  a  frustrated  and  disappointed  sensualist,  whose 
imagination  was  tantalized  but  never  fed  by  the  fact  that  he 
was  in  the  fabled  Orient,  the  abode  of  lovely  Circassians  and 
other  houris,  nodded  agreement.  He  owed  Mr.  Daino- 
poulos  a  few  hundred  francs  and  would  have  been  at  a  loss 
even  if  that  gentleman  had  suddenly  produced  a  beautiful 
and  expensive  woman  for  his  amusement.  He  was  ever 
dreaming  of  a  tremendous  affaire,  but  he  was  too  close-fisted 
a  Norman  from  Darnetal  to  spend  much  on  a  sweetheart. 

"True,"  he  remarked  and  then  called  out  into  the  darkness. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  turning  his  head  into  the  light,  "the  chaloupe 
is  going  off  now.  Let  your  friend  tell  the  patron  the  ship 
he  wants."  And  he  returned  to  this  desk,  yawned,  and  took 
up  a  copy  of  Excelsior.     What  a  life,  eh,  my  old  one ! 

Mr.  Spokesly  pointed  out  the  black  bulk  of  the  Tanganyika, 
and  as  the  launch  slid  along  the  grating,  stepped  up  and 
reached  his  room.  The  night-watchman  said,  "Chief  stew- 
ard he  no  back  yet."  Mr.  Spokesly  turned  in.  He  switched 
out  his  light  and  lay  for  a  while  thinking  with  more  precision 
and  penetration  than  even  the  London  School  of  Mnemonics 
would  have  ventured  to  guarantee.  He  had  some  difficulty 
in  identifying  himself  with  the  man  who  had  gone  ashore 
with  Archy  Bates  that  evening.  And  he  slid  away  into  the 
deep  sleep  of  the  healthy  seafarer  with  a  novel  notion  forming 
at  the  back  of  his  mind.  Suppose  he  was  ashore  in  Saloniki, 
what  would  happen  then.?  If  by  some  turn  of  the  wheel  he 
found  himself  there?  He  might  be  sick,  for  instance,  and 
go  to  the  hospital  and  be  left  behind.  There  was  no  dream, 
but  he  saw  it — a  storm  and  great  toil  and  anxiety,  and  in  the 
midst  of  it  a  girl  awaiting  the  outcome  of  his  exertions  with 
enigmatic  amber  eyes. 


CHAPTER  VI 

MR.  DAINOPOULOS  afterwards  developed  into  an 
excellent  diplomatist,  his  principal  virtue  being  a 
knack  of  gauging  personal  values  and  extracting  use- 
fulness from  apparently  dry  husks.  He  withdrew  from  the 
imaginative  sensualist  who  sat  during  the  night  in  a  highly 
varnished  pine  shack  brooding  upon  the  exasperating  prox- 
imity of  inaccessible  seraglios.  A  useful  instrument  in  many 
schemes,  he  did  not  merit  a  whole  evening.  Like  most  sen- 
sualists of  the  grosser  kind  he  was  a  bore,  and  Mr.  Daino- 
poulos  had  other  clients.  He  picked  his  way  out  of  the 
incredible  mire  of  the  docks,  and  crossed  over  to  the  cleaner 
side  of  the  road  which  extended  from  Venizelos  Street  past 
the  Custom  House,  and  which  was  being  extensively  re- 
modelled by  the  army  of  occupation.  Even  as  Mr.  Daino- 
poulos  crossed  he  could  see  a  number  of  industrious  beings 
mounted  on  newly  erected  telegraph  poles,  their  movements 
illuminated  by  small  bright  lights  so  that  they  resembled  a 
row  of  burning  martyrs  elevated  by  some  Macedonian  tyrant, 
their  cries  and  contortions  as  they  reached  down  into  the 
darkness  for  material  and  tools  recalling  the  agonies  of  shriv- 
elhng  victims.  The  hotel  was  in  blank  darkness.  The 
squirming,  writhing  exfoliations  which  constituted  the  Berlin 
architect's  conception  of  loveliness  showed  not  a  glint  of  light. 
One  could  not  believe  that  it  had  inhabitants,  or  that  they 
were  alive.  Nevertheless,  Mr.  Dainopoulos  halted  before  the 
massive  double  doors  and  rang  the  bell,  a  tall,  high-shouldered 
shade  demanding  admission  to  a  familiar  vault.  It  was  some 
time  after  he  had  relapsed  into  a  motionless  silence  and  an 
observer  might  have  imagined  him  to  have  forgotten  his 
errand,  when  one  of  the  leaves  of  the  door  opened  a  few  inches, 
and  he  raised  his  head.     At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  door 

79 


80  COMMAND 

opened  a  little  more  so  that  he  could  slide  his  body  sideways 
through  the  aperture.  Then  the  door  closed  behind  him  and 
the  hotel  resumed  its  appearance  of  a  monstrous  Renaissance 
tomb. 

Inside,  the  night-porter,  a  person  in  a  slovenly  undress  of 
dirty  shirt,  riding-breeches  open  like  funnels  at  the  knee, 
and  Turkish  slippers,  yawned  and  motioned  his  visitor  to  a 
chair  while  he  slowly  ascended  the  stairs,  which  were  lit  by  a 
single  invisible  lamp  on  the  landing.  Mr.  Dainopoulos  re- 
mained sunk  in  thought.  It  was,  in  a  way,  a  perfectly  hon- 
est and  rational  proposition  he  had  to  make,  but  he  found 
himself  involved  in  some  doubt  as  to  the  way  the  person 
above,  an  Englishman,  would  take  it.  He  knew  something 
of  the  English,  being  married  to  one  of  that  race,  and  he  some- 
times reflected  upon  the  unexpected  workings  of  their  minds. 
They  were  oppressively  practical  and  drove  wonderful  bar- 
gains; and  then  suddenly  they  would  flare  into  inexplicable 
passion  over  something  which  he  for  the  life  of  him  could  not 
comprehend.  If  this  person  upstairs  did  that,  what  would 
it  he?  Mr.  Dainopoulos  shook  his  head.  He  could  not  say. 
He  would  have  to  take  a  chance.  He  might  be  tolerated, 
or  sworn  at,  or  laughed  at,  or  arrested,  or  thrown  down  the 
stairs.  All  these  things  happened  to  honest  merchandisers, 
he  was  well  aware.  He  sometimes  watched  these  English 
under  lowered  lids  and  marvelled.  Personally  he  preferred 
German  or  American  men.  He  felt  nearer  to  them,  less  con- 
scious of  a  certain  incomprehensible  reticence  of  soul  which  is 
peculiar  to  the  English,  a  sort  of  polite  and  poignant  regret 
that  he  should  see  fit  to  cumber  the  earth,  which  had  hap- 
pened, by  a  singular  and  unexplained  destiny,  to  be  their 
heritage.  Association  with  them,  under  such  circumstances 
as  he  encountered,  was  provocative  of  considerable  thought. 
To  men  like  him,  the  confused  product  of  a  hundred  diverging 
stocks,  from  Illyrian  to  Copt,  the  phenomenon  of  these  blond 
and  disdainful  beings,  who  came  always  in  ships  and  were 
apologetic  even  in  their  invasions,  bore  the  mark  of  something 
supernatural,  since  the  contemplation  of  them  in  their  own 
land  filled  a  normal  Latin  with  inarticulate  contempt.     Mr. 


COMMAND  81 

Dainopoulos  had  no  pride.  He  would  have  found  it  an  em- 
barrassing impediment  in  his  business.  But  he  did  devote 
an  occasional  moment  of  leisure  to  wondering  how  men  could 
so  impose  their  eccentric  habit  of  thought  upon  the  nations, 
and  why  he,  for  example,  should  be  directed  to  obtain  his 
personal  ideals  from  a  distant  island  in  the  northern  seas. 

The  servant  appeared  on  the  landing,  and  Mr.  Dainopoulos 
immediately  went  up. 

The  Berlin  architect,  no  doubt  in  anticipation  of  invading 
armies,  had  exhausted  his  ingenuity  in  the  facade  and  the 
reception  rooms,  and  the  chambers  above  were  left  in  a  state 
of  disturbing  starkness.  Mr.  Dainopoulos  was  led  along 
corridors  that  chilled  the  heart  with  their  bare  rectangular 
perspectives,  and  was  halted  at  length  before  a  door  behind 
which  the  voices  of  men  could  be  heard  in  conversation.  And 
in  reply  to  a  knock  a  slightly  querulous  voice  intoned,  "Come 
in,  come  in!'*  as  though  in  infinite  but  weary  patience  with 
elementary  intelligences.     Mr.  Dainopoulos  stepped  in. 

Three  men  occupied  the  room.  A  naval  lieutenant  sat  on 
the  bed  smoking  a  cigarette,  a  young  man  who  did  not  raise 
his  eyes  to  glance  at  the  intruder.  The  owner  of  the  room 
was  a  major,  who  was  seated  at  a  small  escritoire  near  the 
window,  and  whose  belt  and  cap  hung  over  a  chair.  He 
was  a  man  of  thirty-odd,  as  clean  as  though  he  had  been 
scoured  and  scraped  in  boiling  water,  the  small  absurd  mous- 
tache as  decorative  as  a  nail-brush,  and  with  a  look  of  capable 
insolence  in  his  blue-gray  eyes.  A  small  safe  at  his  side  was 
open  and  he  remained  stooping  over  this  as  he  looked  up  and 
saw  Mr.  Dainopoulos  standing  by  the  door.  The  other  man 
was  in  civilian  tweeds,  astride  of  a  chair  with  his  arms  on  the 
back,  smoking  a  large  curved  meerschaum  pipe.  A  clean- 
shaven circular-faced  man  of  doubtful  age,  he  was  the  only 
one  of  the  three  who  regarded  their  visitor  in  a  humane  man- 
ner. He  nodded  slightly  in  response  to  the  low  bow  made 
by  Mr.  Dainopoulos  on  his  entry.  The  latter,  however, 
knew  better  than  to  presume  on  this.  He  paused  until  the 
major  invited  him  to  approach,  and  the  major  did  not  do 
this.     He  simply  waited,  leaning  over  his  safe,  for  Mr.  Daino- 


82  COMMAND 

poulos  to  explain  his  intrusion,  his  existence  on  earth,  and  his 
intentions  as  to  the  future,  and  anything  else  which  might  be 
regarded  as  extenuating  his  conduct.  When  Mr.  Dainopou- 
los  remarked  that  he  had  called  on  a  little  matter  of  business, 
the  major  bent  his  head  again  and  went  on  investigating  the 
papers  in  the  safe,  as  though  Mr.  Dainopoulos  had  suddenly 
and  completely  evaporated. 

"Well,"  he  observed  at  length,  straightening  up  and  laying 
some  papers  on  his  desk,  "why  do  you  call  on  a  little  matter 
of  business  in  the  middle  of  the  night?"  He  brought  his  left 
arm  up  in  a  peculiar  whirl  to  the  level  of  his  eyes  and  looked 
at  his  wrist  watch.  "Eleven-twenty,"  he  added  in  a  tone  of 
detached  contempt,  and  shot  a  severe  look  at  his  visitor. 

Mr.  Dainopoulos  remained  standing  by  the  door  and  main- 
tained his  attitude  of  calm  urgency.  He  explained  that  the 
departure  of  the  consuls  had  led  him  to  remodel  his  arrange- 
ments. All  three  looked  at  him  with  attention  when  he  made 
this  statement.  The  naval  lieutenant,  whose  work  it  was  to 
examine  and  pass  all  neutral  vessels,  knew  Mr.  Dainopoulos 
very  well.  To  his  regret  he  had  never  found  that  gentleman 
doing  anything  at  all  shady,  but  he  had  never  abandoned  his 
conviction  that  he  would  catch  him  some  day.  The  civilian, 
who  was  a  censor  and  decoder  of  neutral  correspondence,  was 
familiar  with  the  Dainopoulos  dossier  in  his  office  and  had 
read  with  surprise  the  chatty  letters  to  girls  in  London  which 
came  from  the  man's  wife.  He,  however,  was  not  in  a  posi- 
tion to  reveal  his  knowledge,  and  looked  at  Mr.  Dainopoulos 
with  good-tempered  curiosity.  The  major,  who  knew  his 
visitor  better  than  either  of  the  others,  having  purchased 
large  quantities  of  stores  from  him  at  a  handsome  profit 
to  the  vendor,  looked  as  if  he  had  been  insulted  when  the 
consuls  were  mentioned.  As  well  he  might,  since  those 
astute  gentlemen  had  done  their  best  to  keep  all  possible 
material  out  of  his  hands,  had  blandly  checkmated  the  armies 
of  occupation  at  every  turn,  even  preaching  a  holy  war  against 
them  among  the  owners  of  Turkish  baths  in  the  Via  Egnatia. 
They  had  financed  Hellenic  Turks  who  laid  injunctions  on 
rights-of-way,  issued  writs  against  movement  of  goods,  and 


COMMAND  83 

sought  to  inflame  French  against  EngHsh  and  Itahan  against 
both.  The  consuls  had  been  the  curse  of  every  executive  at 
Headquarters,  for  their  resources  and  nerve  seemed  unlimited. 
They  worked  together  like  a  team  of  experienced  crooks  on  a 
steamship,  and  never  for  a  moment  were  the  invaders  per- 
mitted to  forget  that  the  local  government  was  neutral. 
The  major  was  happier  than  he  had  been  for  a  long  while, 
though  he  lacked  the  emotional  demonstrativeness  proper  to 
such  a  mood.  All  three  of  these  men,  by  their  reports,  had 
aided  in  the  grand  coup  which  had  culminated  that  evening  in 
the  expulsion  of  the  consuls  across  the  frontier.  But  their 
first  thought,  when  Mr.  Dainopoulos  mentioned  consuls,  was 
that  by  some  ghastly  mischance  the  consuls  had  got  back 
into  Saloniki  and  the  whole  weary  business  was  to  begin 
again. 

"Eh?"  said  the  major,  snarling  up  his  upper  lip  so  that  his 
moustache  looked  more  like  a  nail-brush  than  ever,  and  look- 
ing as  if  he  were  about  to  spring  up  and  fasten  his  teeth  in  his 
visitor's  neck.     "What's  that.?'* 

Thus  having  evoked  a  suitable  interest  in  his  affairs,  Mr. 
Dainopoulos  drew  a  small  notebook  from  his  pocket  and 
began  to  enumerate  the  list  of  goods  the  sudden  departure 
of  the  consuls  had  left  on  his  hands.  In  the  midst  of  it,  the 
major  nodded  to  a  chair  and  said,  "Sit  down  over  here, 
please."  Mr.  Dainopoulos  came  forward,  sat  down,  and  pro- 
ceeded. The  naval  lieutenant  reached  over  to  the  dressing 
table,  took  up  a  Turkish  dagger  and  began  turning  it  over  in 
his  hands,  examining  the  edge  with  an  intense  stare.  The 
censor  drew  steadily  at  his  pipe  and  looked  Mr.  Dainopoulos 
up  and  down.  He  was  a  novelist,  and  of  the  three  may  be 
said  to  have  had  some  practice  in  the  gauging  of  character. 
He  was  aware,  in  spite  of  a  life  spent  exclusively  in  southern 
England  and  among  one  small  exclusive  caste  of  English 
people,  that  this  Levantine  might  have  a  view  of  his  own. 
He  was  interesting.  Where  had  he  picked  up  that  English 
wife?  A  slight  shudder  passed  over  him  in  spite  of  himself 
at  the  thought  of  an  English  woman  in  a  Levantine's  arms. 
No  doubt,  however,  she  was  a  housemaid  or  something  of 


84  COMMAND 

that  sort.  Must  be  making  a  lot  of  money.  The  censor 
felt  a  surge  of  indignation  over  this.  His  own  family's  re- 
sources had  been  quadrupled  by  the  war;  but  that  of  course 
was  the  reward  of  patriotic  endeavour.  He  found  it  intoler- 
able that  a  neutral  should  make  money  out  of  bloodshed. 
Mr.  Dainopoulos  proceeded  as  calmly  and  collectedly  as 
though  he  were  a  salesman  in  Birmingham  or  Liverpool.  He 
certainly  was  unaware  of  inspiring  horror  and  contempt.  He 
even  mentioned  a  thousand  yards  of  Indian  cotton  drill  which 
he  had  in  his  warehouse  and  which  he  had  purchased  for 
a  song  from  a  German  firm  in  Alexandria  a  few  days  be- 
fore the  English  had  sequestered  the  business.  The  only 
point  on  which  he  was  reticent  was  the  fact  that  he  had  al- 
ready been  paid  in  gold  for  most  of  it  by  the  consular  agents; 
a  most  satisfactory  arrangement  for  him,  but  unfortunate  for 
them  in  the  present  juncture,  since  they  had  no  receipt  and 
the  goods  were  to  be  held  against  their  order.  There  was 
something  exasperating  in  the  spectacle  of  this  man  sitting 
there,  with  all  the  marks  of  clandestine  knavery  about  him, 
merely  offering  bona  fide  goods  for  sale.  He  was  a  Greek  in 
Greece,  transacting  business  which,  although  he  did  not 
yet  know  it,  was  of  vital  importance  to  them,  for  a  whole 
string  of  vessels  bound  for  Saloniki  had  been  sunk  inside  of 
two  days,  from  the  Start  to  Karaburun.  They  were  at  a  loss 
for  a  week  or  so,  and  a  week  or  so  in  war  is  not  to  be  ignored. 
And  here  was  an  unprepossessing  person  offering  them,  at  a 
comparatively  reasonable  rate,  a  remarkable  consignment  of 
material.  Apart  from  their  own  needs  in  Macedonia  they 
had  recently  sent  a  few  thousand  men  to  an  island  in  the 
yEgean  to  prepare  a  base,  and  the  ships  bearing  their  stores 
were  unreported.  Sunk,  of  course.  They  sat  in  various  poses 
thinking  of  all  this,  and  Mr.  Dainopoulos  closed  his  note- 
book and  took  out  a  cigarette. 

It  should  be  said  for  him  that  if  he  had  known  their  actual 
position  his  price  would  have  been  slightly  higher,  just  as 
later  on  English  merchants*  prices  became  so  high  that  men 
spat  at  the  sound  of  their  names.  But  he  was  not  a  profiteer 
in  the  modern  sense.     He  knew  nothing  of  advertising,  for 


COMMAND  85 

example.  He  thought  100  per  cent,  an  adequate  reimburse- 
ment for  the  risks  of  trade. 

He  was  asked  when  he  could  effect  delivery.  He  said  in  a 
week  or  ten  days,  some  of  it  being  on  board  a  steamer  on  its 
way  now  from  Alexandria. 

"What  steamer  is  that?'*  demanded  the  lieutenant. 

"  The  Kalhisy  four  hundred  tons,"  he  replied.  "  I  have  had 
her  a  year  now." 

"What  speed?" 

"Oh,  four.  Perhaps  four  and  a  half.  A  very  old  ship. 
No  good  except  for  my  business  to  the  Islands." 

"Don't  know  about  that,  my  friend,"  muttered  the  major. 
"  You  may  have  to  give  up  your  business  to  the  Islands.  We 
commandeer  our  own  ships;  I  don't  see  how  you  are  going  to 
get  out  of  it." 

"That  would  suit  me,"  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos  promptly. 
"She  costs  me  fifteen  thousand  francs  a  month  insurance. 
And  coal  is  four  hundred  francs  a  ton  in  Port  Said.  I  make 
very  little  out  of  her." 

This  was  scarcely  the  literal  truth,  though  Mr.  Dainopoulos 
might  be  pardoned  for  depreciating  his  profits  at  a  moment 
when  a  purchaser  appeared.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  had  made 
already  out  of  that  small  ship  about  seven  times  her  original 
purchase  price  and  he  had  a  neat  scheme  in  hand  which  would 
make  her  a  very  good  investment  indeed. 

"We  have  some  business  in  the  Islands,  too,  you  see,"  the 
major  remarked  abstractedly.  "  I  think  you  had  better  come 
to  my  office  say  about  ten-thirty  to-morrow.  You  know  the 
place.  Next  to  the  Ottoman  Bank,  eh?  G.  O.  S.  Room 
Fourteen.     Ask  for  Major  Begg." 

Mr.  Dainopoulos,  who  would  probably  have  done  a  thou- 
sand francs'  worth  of  business  before  the  major  had  had  his 
bath,  expressed  his  willingness  to  appear. 

"Will  you  have  a  drink?"  said  the  major  in  a  harsh,  brow- 
beating tone  which  was  believed  by  himself  and  many  others 
of  his  class  to  evoke  the  very  soul  of  bluff  hospitality.  Mr. 
Dainopoulos,  however,  had  a  strange  feeling  of  having  been 
good-humouredly  kicked  in  the  face.     He  declined  the  re- 


86  COMMAND 

freshment,  not  because  he  felt  insulted,  but  because  he  knew 
the  only  drink  these  men  had  was  whiskey  and  the  smell  and 
taste  of  the  stuff  made  him  sick. 

"All  right,"  said  the  major,  regarding  an  abstainer  with 
disfavour.  He  liked  a  man  to  take  a  drink.  "To-morrow  at 
ten-thirty.     You  might  close  the  door.     Thanks." 

As  he  closed  the  door  behind  him,  as  requested,  Mr.  Daino- 
poulos  reflected  that  he  would  have  time  to  lay  the  matter 
before  a  French  colonel  he  knew  before  reaching  Room 
Fourteen.  But  he  believed  the  best  price  was  to  be  had  from 
the  British.  He  had  found  out  that  much  in  the  course  of 
his  career — they  did  not  haggle. 

The  three  men  he  had  left  did  not  speak  for  a  moment, 
waiting  for  him  to  get  out  of  earshot. 

"Looks  like  Providence,"  observed  the  lieutenant,  making 
a  lunge  with  the  dagger  at  a  knot  in  the  bedstead. 

The  major  pulled  up  his  trouser  leg  and  scratched  a  hairy 
calf.  "These  infernal  fleas!"  he  muttered.  "Yes,  as  you 
say,  Providence.     An  angel  very  much  in  disguise." 

"What  about  that  ship,  the  Kalkis  ?**  asked  the  censor. 

"Oh,  we  shall  probably  charter  her,"  said  the  major  bit- 
terly. "Take  all  the  risk  and  pay  him  a  princely  sum  for 
sitting  tight  here  and  doing  nothing.  We  ought  to  buy,  but 
we  won't." 

He  sat  silent  for  a  moment.  He  was  thinking  of  those  men 
in  Phyros,  waiting  for  their  stores,  eating  sparingly  of  their 
emergency  rations,  sampling  the  local  cheese  and  bread  and 
keeping  a  bright  look-out  for  transports  which  were  lying  on 
their  sides  in  eighty  fathoms.  Something  would  have  to  be 
done  at  once  about  them.  This  Dainopoulos  had — here  the 
major  glanced  at  his  shorthand  notes — four  thousand  feet  of 
timber  and  the  Phyros  crowd  were  frantic  for  timber  for  a 
jetty.  Just  think  of  it !  A  fertile  island  which  these  Greeks 
had  had  for  a  couple  of  thousand  years,  and  no  jetty  yet! 
What  could  one  do  with  people  like  that.'*  Hopeless.  Then 
there  was  flour.  He  simply  had  to  have  some  flour  soon. 
Dainopoulos  said  he  had  fifteen  hundred  barrels  when  the 
Kalkis  came  in. 


COMMAND  87 

There  was  in  all  this  hard  thinking  no  complete  view  of  the 
war  or  of  the  world.  If  they  could  collar  stores  from  some 
other  front  or  from  one  of  their  allies,  it  was  all  one  to  them. 
Even  the  course  of  events  had  no  interest  for  them  beyond 
their  own  base.  This  was  an  inevitable  result  of  the  intensive 
pressure  of  responsibility  on  executives.  They  were  not 
callous.  They  were  simply  busy.  Their  own  lives  were  still 
bounded  by  the  social  barriers  of  England.  They  never 
spoke  of  private  affairs  except  to  some  man  of  their  own  class 
who  had  been  to  one  of  the  great  public  schools.  For  them 
the  war  was  a  war  to  perpetuate  this  social  hierarchy,  to  place 
it  once  more  upon  an  impregnable  base.  They  wished  to 
win,  they  but  could  see  no  difference  between  democracy  and 
defeat.  Even  the  novelist  was  a  novelist  within  the  radius 
of  his  social  sphere,  and  remained  within  it  in  a  city  of  Mace- 
donia. He  felt  it  incumbent  upon  him  to  remain  also  a  gen- 
tleman, even  at  the  expense  of  valuable  collisions  with  alien 
temperaments.  "  He*s  a  Greek,  and  I  loathe  them,"  summa- 
rizes, in  the  major's  words,  their  collective  sentiment.  And 
their  allies,  it  is  to  be  feared,  suffered  under  this  highly 
specialized  form  of  criticism.  Nothing  that  happened  was 
adequate  to  demolish  this  formidable  Kultur.  In  victory  and 
in  defeat  it  was  indestructible.  Only  the  genius  of  the  race, 
working  in  the  very  strongholds  of  that  Kultur^  can  split  it 
open  and  release  new  forces  and  aspirations.  But  of  this 
even  the  novelist,  who  trafficked  in  happy  endings,  had  no 
suspicion.  He  wrote  a  short  story  later,  a  story  in  which  an 
English  girl  who  had  been  carried  off  by  a  rascally  Greek  was 
rescued  by  an  English  officer  who  took  her  home  to  England 
and  married  her. 

To  the  lieutenant  the  departure  of  the  consuls  and  the 
impending  formation  of  a  provisional  government  were 
affairs  of  qualified  good.  A  provisional  government  would 
immediately  shriek  for  the  return  of  all  sequestrated  property. 
It  would  demand  the  status  of  allies,  and  all  their  ships 
would  start  a  complicated  system  of  espionage  and  smuggling. 
It  would  be,  in  his  opinion,  a  series  of  perfect  days.  Nobody 
was  honest  nowadays.     Not  a  week  ago  he  had  caught  naval 


88  COMMAND 

stores  going  over  the  side  of  a  ship  into  a  local  boat,  and  the 
guilty  party  was  wearing  three  medals,  for  valour  and  dis- 
tinguished service.  He  sometimes  wished  they  would  put 
him  on  a  ship  again.  It  gave  one  a  chance  to  do  something 
besides  play  detective  anyway.     The  major  spoke  again. 

"What  about  a  captain  for  the  Kalkis  f  We  shall  have  to 
have  one  of  our  own  men,  Mathews." 

"Afraid  that's  not  possible,"  said  the  lieutenant.  "We 
haven't  too  many  men,  you  know.  Better  send  him  out 
with  a  convoy  going  to  Alex.  I  might  have  had  one  of  those 
chaps  who  were  rescued  the  other  day  off  that  transport,  but 
theyVe  all  gone  home  overland.  And  they  won't  stay,  you 
know.     All  want  to  get  home." 

"Can  one  blame  them.?  "  asked  the  censor.  "I  read  letters 
in  which  these  seamen  say  they  have  not  seen  their  families 
for  seven  or  eight  months." 

"Dear  me!"  said  the  major  drily.  His  own  family  were 
Indian  Civil  Service.  "What  you  might  call  the  hardships 
of  war.  Possibly  we  may  find  someone  without  family  ties, 
Mathews." 

The  lieutenant  smiled  and  ran  his  thumb  along  the  blade 
of  the  Turkish  dagger. 

"Possibly,"  he  replied.  He  smiled  because  the  major  was 
rather  conspicuous  at  home  for  his  affairs  with  married 
women. 

"By  the  way,"  said  the  censor,  following  some  obscure 
association  of  ideas,  "I  met  Morpeth  this  evening  and  he  was 
telling  me  they  expected  some  new  arrivals  from  Paris  at  the 
Omphale." 

"Yes,  I  heard  that,"  said  the  major,  who  was  not  at  all 
interested.  "  It  will  be  a  riot.  Probably  three  or  four.  And 
about  thirty  or  forty  Greek,  French,  Italian,  and  Serbian 
lieutenants,  standing  round  six  deep,  making  them  squiffy 
on  Floka's  Monopole.    No,  thanks.    Stale  pastry,  anyhow." 

The  lieutenant  continued  to  smile. 

"They'd  better  be  doing  that  than  slapping  each  other's 
faces  and  exchanging  cards  at  the  Cercle  Militaire,"  he  mur- 
mured. 


COMMAND  89 

"They  do  that  anyhow — afterwards,"  said  the  major, 
thrusting  his  papers  into  the  safe  and  Hghting  a  cigarette. 
He  shoved  the  door  to  with  his  foot,  twirled  the  knob,  and 
stood  up. 

"What  about  some  golf  to-morrow  afternoon?"  he  de- 
manded. "Didn't  you  say  you  had  a  friend  coming  ashore, 
Mathews.?" 

"  Yes,  from  the  Proteus.  He'll  be  here  about  three,  I  think. 
Very  decent  chap,  too." 

"Right.  We'll  go  out  in  the  new  car.  See  you  in  the 
morning." 

Mr.  Dainopoulos  found  the  trolley  cars  had  stopped  run- 
ning and  began  to  walk  home  past  the  cafes  of  the  front.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  road  the  stern  rails  of  a  score  of  small 
coasting  craft  moved  up  and  down  gently  in  the  slight  swell, 
and  from  here  and  there  amid  the  confused  dunnage  on  deck 
a  figure  moved  in  sleep,  or  a  silhouette  of  a  man  bending  over 
a  lantern  showed  up  for  a  moment.  At  intervals  strains  of 
American  jazz  music  came  from  the  haunts  of  pleasure,  and 
one  could  get  a  glimpse  now  and  then  of  a  dreary  dance- 
floor  with  half  a  dozen  soldiers  and  sailors  slathering  clumsily 
to  and  fro,  embracing  women  that  gave  one  the  horrors  merely 
to  look  at,  women  like  half -starved  harpies  or  cylinders  of 
oily  fat,  the  sweat  running  down  through  the  calcareous  de- 
posits on  their  faces  and  their  squat  chunky  feet  slewed  side- 
ways in  bronze  and  coppery  shoes.  Mr.  Dainopoulos  hurried 
past  these  abodes.  Mr.  Bates,  Archy  Bates,  a  great 
business  friend  of  his,  was  somewhere  inside  one  of  them, 
fulfilling  his  destiny  as  a  patron  of  Aphrodite  and  Dionysos; 
but  Mr.  Dainopoulos  had  finished  business  for  the  day 
and  he  wanted  to  get  home.  This  was  not  to  be  without 
meeting  Archy.  The  cat-like  smile  on  his  unfortunate 
features,  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  Mr.  Bates  emerged  from  the  Odeon  Bar  just 
as  a  carriage  appeared  in  the  distance.  Mr.  Bates  did  not 
conceal  his  gratification.  Would  his  friend  come  back  and 
have  a  drink? 


90  COMMAND 

"Not  to-night,"  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos  quietly.  "Me,  I'm 
going  home  now.     Excuse  me,  Mister.** 

"Now,  now!"  protested  Archy,  cUnging  with  the  adhesive- 
ness of  the  pickled  philanthropist.  "Now,  now!  Lissen. 
Come-a-me  to  White  Tower.  Eh?  Laddie?  You-n-me,  eh? 
Li'r  fren'  o*  mine  Whi'  Tower.  She  gotta  fren',  y'  know. 
Here  y'are." 

The  driver,  seeing  a  possible  fare,  stopped,  and  Archy, 
still  adhering,  dragged  Mr.  Dainopoulos  in  after  him. 

"Stivan,"  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos  to  the  driver,  whom  he 
knew,  "go  to  the  White  Tower  and  when  this  gentleman  has 
got  out,  drive  me  home  quick,  understand?  Leave  him  be- 
hind.   And  go  back  to  him  if  he  wants  you.     Now!'* 

The  driver  at  once  set  off  up  the  road  again  and  Mr.  Bates, 
who,  like  Shakespeare,  had  small  Latin  and  less  Greek,  sat 
smiling  in  the  darkness,  trying  to  formulate  in  his  mind  and 
articulate  with  his  tongue  something  that  just  eluded  him. 
To  meet  his  old  fren*  like  this — it  was  a — 'strornery  thing 
how  he  couldn't  shay  just  how  he  felt.     He  smiled. 

Mr.  Dainopoulos  sat  without  smiling.  He  was  not  a  drink- 
ing man  at  any  time,  and  the  professional  soak  was  a  mystery 
to  him.  Mr.  Bates  was  as  much  a  mystery  as  the  major. 
His  actions  had  the  disconcerting  lack  of  rational  sequence 
that  one  discerns  in  pampered  carnivora.  Absent-minded 
sensuality  is  a  baffling  phenomenon.  Mr.  Dainopoulos  had 
something  of  the  clear  sharp  logic  of  the  Latin,  and  the  vinous 
benevolence  of  Mr.  Bates  aroused  in  him  a  species  of  alert 
incredulity.  He  sat  in  silence,  listening  to  the  gurgle  of  his 
companion *s  incoherence.  This  was  a  phase  of  his  daily 
existence  which  he  never  mentioned  to  his  wife;  his  dealings 
with  the  more  dissipated  of  her  countrymen.  To  his  relief 
the  carriage  stopped  at  the  entrance  of  the  Tower  Gardens. 
He  took  Mr.  Bates's  arm  to  assist  him  to  alight,  but  Mr.  Bates 
had  forgotten  the  White  Tower.  He  was  trying  to  sing  and 
not  succeeding  very  well.  He  sat  erect,  his  hat  pushed  back 
until  the  brim  formed  a  dark  halo  about  his  smile,  beating 
time  with  one  hand. 

"Here  you  are,  Mister  Bates,**  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  try- 


COMMAND  91 

ing  to  move  him.     Mr.  Bates  resisted  gently,  drew  back  his 
chin  a  Httle  more  and  attacked  a  lower  G : 

**Mo-na,  Monay  my  own  love  I 
Art — thou  not  mine 

Through  the  long  years  to — be-e-e  I " 

The  sound  of  that  small  and  strangely  clear  voice,  after  the 
odorous  gibbering  speech,  almost  appalled  Mr.  Dainopoulos. 
He  spoke  rapidly  to  the  driver,  instructing  him  to  wait  and  he 
would  be  paid  in  due  time,  and  started  off  into  the  darkness. 

Mr.  Bates  finished  his  song  to  his  own  satisfaction  and 
having  smiled  into  the  darkness  for  a  while,  began  to  wonder 
where  he  was.  "  'Strornery  thing,  but  he  was  almost  shertain 
or  fren*  of  his  had  been  there.  Mush  'ave  been  a  mishtake." 
He  got  out  so  suddenly  the  driver  was  scared.  Mr.  Bates 
took  a  bill  out  of  his  pocket,  held  it  up  uncertainly  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  when  the  driver  had  clutched  it,  marched  in  an 
intricate  manner  into  the  gardens.  His  smile  became  more 
cat-like  than  ever  as  the  sound  of  syncopated  music  reached 
his  ear  and  he  passed  a  woman  strolling  under  the  trees.  He 
hummed  his  song  again.  The  evening,  for  him,  was  only  just 
beginning. 

Mr.  Dainopoulos  hurried  forward  and  soon  left  the  region 
of  hard  arc-lights  behind.  His  house  was  not  far  from  here. 
He  wished  to  get  home.  He  regretted  sometimes  that  his 
business  took  him  so  much  away  from  the  house,  for  he  re- 
tained sufficient  simplicity  to  imagine  that  the  laws  of  na- 
ture do  not  apply  to  love,  that  you  can  increase  the  volume 
without  diminishing  the  intensity.  But  he  consoled  himself 
with  the  thought  that  in  a  few  years  he  would  be  able  to  de- 
vote himself  entirely  to  his  wife.  His  dream  was  not  very 
clear  in  its  outlines  as  yet,  because  the  war  now  raging  was 
far-reaching  in  its  effects.  It  would  be  unwise  to  make  plans 
which  the  political  changes  might  render  impossible  of  accom- 
plishment. For  the  present  he  was  satisfied  to  place  his 
reserves  at  a  safe  distance  in  diversified  but  thoroughly  sound 
securities,  so  that  unless  the  civilized  world  turned  completely 


92  COMMAND 

upside  down  and  all  men  repudiated  their  obligations,  he 
would  be  able  to  control  his  resources.  There  was  not  much 
doubt  about  that  in  his  mind.  He  knew  that  business  would 
go  on,  was  going  on,  even  while  men  moved  in  massed  milhons 
to  destroy  each  other.  While  the  line  swayed  and  crumpled 
and  broke,  or  surged  forward  under  the  incredibly  sustained 
roar  of  ten  thousand  cannon,  English  and  French  and  German 
business  men  were  perfecting  their  plans  for  doing  business 
with  each  other  as  soon  as  it  was  over.  The  ethical  side  of 
the  question  scarcely  arose  in  his  mind,  since  he  had  grown 
accustomed  to  wars  and  the  money  to  be  made  out  of  them. 
To  him  the  struggle  in  France  and  on  the  Slavic  frontier  was 
far  off  and  shadowy,  as  was  the  grim  game  at  sea.  He  was 
not  to  be  blamed  for  measuring  events  by  the  scale  in  use  by 
those  of  his  race;  and  if  there  was  somewhat  more  ferocity 
and  sustained  butchery  in  this  war  than  in  others,  it  was  only 
another  significant  symptom  of  Anglo-Saxon  temperament, 
because  business,  he  knew  quite  well,  was  going  on. 

He  knocked  at  the  door  in  the  wall  which  had  so  impressed 
Mr.  Spokesly  earlier  in  the  evening,  and  was  admitted  after 
a  parley  by  a  middle-aged  servant- woman. 

"  Madama  gone  to  bed.''"  he  asked,  picking  up  a  large  cat 
that  was  rubbing  herself  against  his  leg,  and  putting  her  out 
into  the  garden. 

**  No,  she's  not  gone  to  bed.  She  said  she  would  wait  for 
you  to  come  home." 

"  All  right.     You  can  go  to  bed  then,"  he  retorted. 

The  woman  shot  the  bolts  and  picked  up  the  cheap  pink 
glass  lamp  without  answering.  Mr.  Dainopoulos  made  his 
way  upstairs.  There  was  no  light  in  the  room  looking  out 
over  the  sea.  In  their  chamber  beyond,  a  night-light,  very 
small  and  rose-coloured,  was  burning  on  a  small  table  below 
a  picture  of  the  Virgin,  as  though  it  were  a  shrine.  It  took 
the  place  of  one,  for  his  wife  made  the  most  of  his  rather 
dilapidated  devoutness,  and  often  left  a  candle  burning  there. 
There  was  an  ulterior  motive  in  her  action  which  she  had 
never  formulated  exactly  even  to  herself.  This  was  the 
appeal  which  a  strange  and  sensuous  religion  made  to  her 


COMMAND  93 

romantic  instinct.  She  would  always  be  Church  of  England 
herself;  but  the  impression  made  by  candles  and  an  ikon  upon 
her  girl-friends  in  Haverstock  Hill  in  North  London  was 
always  before  her.  She  could  hear  them  breathe  the  word 
"ikon,"  and  then  draw  in  their  breath  in  an  ecstasy  of  awe. 
And  the  thought  of  it  gave  her  pleasure. 

But  she  was  not  in  the  chamber  and  he  returned  to  the 
other  room  in  search  of  her. 

She  was  lying  as  before,  her  eyes  closed  and  her  hands 
clasped  lightly  over  the  tartan  rug.  A  screen  had  been 
opened  and  stationed  between  her  and  the  window.  This 
was  the  hour  to  which  his  thoughts  went  forward  occasionally 
during  the  day  of  chaffering  on  the  front,  or  in  his  blue- 
distempered  oflSce  with  its  shabby  chestnut  fittings  in  the 
Cite  Saul.  To  the  western  cynic  there  was  a  rich  humour  in 
the  sheer  fortuitousness  of  their  meeting  in  the  midst  of  a 
drowning  multitude.  To  him  it  was  not  humorous  at  all. 
To  him  it  was  significant  of  a  profound  fatality.  To  him  it 
confirmed  his  inherited  faith  in  omens  and  the  finger  of  God. 
She  was  a  common  enough  type  of  woman  in  most  things, 
yet  she  embodied  for  him  a  singular  ideal  of  human  achieve- 
ment. He  knew  of  nothing  in  the  world  comparable  with 
her,  and  the  knowledge  that  she  was  his  was  at  times  almost 
unbelievable.  Whether  she  loved  him  was  a  question  he 
never  faced.  He  believed  it,  and  doubted,  and  believed 
again.  He  knew  by  instinct  that  it  was  not  a  matter  of  im- 
portance as  was  the  fact  of  possession.  He  extracted  a  rare 
and  subtle  pleasure  from  the  fragrant  ambiguity  of  her  smile. 
After  all,  though  it  may  be  doubted  if  he  had  ever  entertained 
the  thought,  he  was  fortunate  in  his  circumstances.  He  had 
no  need  to  be  jealous  or  watchful.  She  lay  there  quietly, 
thinking  of  course  of  him,  while  he  was  on  his  affairs  in  the 
port. 

He  paused  now  and  saw  that  she  was  asleep,  and  he  set 
the  little  night-light  on  the  table  and  sat  down  near  her, 
watching  her  with  an  expression  of  grave  enthusiasm  on  his 
damaged  features.  He  was  not  familiar  with  the  stock  witti- 
cisms concerning  the  hollowness  of  marriage  and  the  in- 


94  COMMAND 

evitable  disgust  which  follows  possession.  Indeed,  for  all  his 
rascality  and  guile  in  business  he  was  a  rather  unsophisticated 
fellow.  He  possessed  that  infinite  patience  which  is  some- 
times more  effective  in  retaining  love  than  even  courage  or 
folly.  Another  factor  in  his  favour  was  his  lack  of  facility 
for  friendship.  This  worked  both  ways,  for  friendship  is  the 
secret  antagonist  of  both  business  and  love.  He  sat  there, 
shading  his  eyes  with  his  curved  palm,  watching  his  wife, 
thinking  of  past,  present,  and  future  in  that  confused  and 
gentle  abstraction  which  we  call  happiness,  when  she  suddenly 
opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him  for  one  brief  instant  with 
a  blank  and  vacant  gaze.  Then  she  smiled  and  he  bent  over 
her. 

*'  Back,  Boris.?  "  she  murmured  chidingly. 

"  My  business,  darling.     I  had  to  see  a  man." 

"  Always  business.     I  thought  you'd  never  come." 

"  First  I  had  to  take  that  gentleman  to  the  French  Pier, 
for  a  boat.  And  then  I  went  to  the  Olympos  Hotel.  I  think 
very  good  business." 

**  Don't  talk  about  business  now." 

"But,  my  sweetheart,  it  is  all  for  you.  By-and-by  you 
will  see." 

"  See  what,  silly.?"  she  asked,  rumpling  his  hair. 

**  See  what?  You  ask'a  funny  question.  I  cannot  tell  you, 
not  yet.     But  in  my  mind,  I  see  it." 

And  he  did,  too.  He  saw,  in  his  mind,  a  superb  and  curv- 
ing shore  of  yellow  sand  encircling  a  sea  of  flawless  azure. 
He  saw  a  long  line  of  white  villas,  white  with  biscuit-coloured 
balconies  and  green  jalousies,  rising  amid  gardens  of  laurel 
and  palm ;  he  saw  white  yachts  rocking  at  anchor,  and  illum- 
inated houseboats  in  the  shadow  of  a  great  breakwater.  He 
saw  the  spangled  lights  of  a  fairy  city,  a  city  filled  with  fabrics 
and  jewels  which  he  would  buy  for  her.  He  saw  all  this,  and 
in  his  mind  the  world  had  fought  itself  to  a  standstill  and  the 
cautious  investor  had  come  into  his  own.  He  saw  the  war- 
weary  battalions  returning  to  their  toil,  slaving  to  pay  off  the 
cost  of  their  adventure.  This  was  the  way  of  the  world  as 
he  knew  it.     It  was  no  use  blaming  him :  he  merely  took  ad- 


COMMAND  95 

vantage  of  human  need  and  folly,  as  we  all  do.  He  had  been 
through  wars  before  and  knew  the  inevitable  reactions,  and 
the  almost  incredible  cheapness  of  money  that  followed.  He 
was  by  instinct  one  of  those  who,  like  camp-followers  on  a 
grand  scale,  prosper  amid  the  animosities  of  simpler  folk;  per- 
sons who  found  fortunes  upon  great  wars,  as  did  the  Jews  in 
London  after  1815  and  the  bourgeois  bankers  of  Paris  after 
the  Revolution.  And  it  surprised  him  how  little  his  wife 
knew,  how  little  she  questioned  the  world  in  which  she  lived. 
Of  course  it  was  charming,  and  he  was  fascinated  just  because 
she  had  that  amazing  racial  blindness  to  facts  and  lived  in  a 
fanciful  world  of  her  own.  The  English  were  all  like  that,  it 
seemed  to  him. 

He  put  his  arms  about  her. 

"  In  my  mind  I  see  it.  You  wait.  Everything  you  can 
think  of,  all  very  fine.'* 

"HereinSaloniki.?" 

"No!'' 

"In  England?" 

Mr.  Dainopoulos  laughed  a  little  and  shook  his  head.  He 
was  quite  sure  England  wouldn't  be  any  place  for  him  after 
this  war.  In  his  own  private  opinion,  there  wouldn't  be  any 
England  within  ten  years  from  now,  which  shows  how  logical 
and  wide-awake  Latins  can  make  errors  of  judgment.  In 
any  case,  there  were  too  many  Jews  there. 

"Because  I  don't  want  to  go  to  America,"  she  remarked, 
still  rumpling  his  hair. 

"America!  What  makes  you  think  of  America .'^  You 
must  be  losing  your  mind,  Alice."  He  almost  shivered.  He 
was  just  as  well  able  to  make  money  in  America  as  anywhere 
else,  but  what  use  would  it  be  to  him  in  such  a  place?  It  is 
extremely  diflScult  for  the  Anglo-Saxon  to  realize  it,  but  men 
like  Mr.  Dainopoulos  find  occidental  institutions  a  spiritual 
desolation.  He  recalled  the  time  when  he  boarded  in  New- 
ark, New  Jersey,  and  worked  in  a  felt-hat  factory.  The 
house  was  of  wood  without  even  a  floor  of  stone,  and  he 
could  not  sleep  because  of  the  vermin.  And  the  food!  He 
experienced  afresh  the  nausea  of  those  meals  among  the 


96  COMMAND 

roomers,  the  bulging  haunches  of  the  negroid  waitress  col- 
liding with  his  shoulders  as  she  worked  round  and  served 
the  rows  and  rows  of  oval  dishes  dripping  with  soggy,  im- 
possible provender.  And  the  roomers:  English,  German, 
and  American,  with  their  horrible  whiskey  and  their  ever- 
lasting gibberish  of  "wop"  and  "dago,"  their  hints  and 
blustering  invitations  to  join  mysterious  fraternities  which 
no  one  seemed  to  understand  or  explain.  Mr.  Dainopoulos 
must  not  be  censured  for  withdrawing  from  all  this.  He  made 
no  claims  upon  western  civilization,  and  its  lack  of  logic  and 
continuity  led  him  to  prefer  something  less  virtuous,  per- 
haps, but  also  less  of  a  strain  upon  normal  human  nature. 

"You  say  you  don't  want  to  go  to  America.  And  I'll  say 
it,  too.  I've  been  there,  and  that  was  enough  for  me.  I 
should  die  there,  with  the  food  they  give  you.  It's  a  fine 
country,  with  fine  trees  in  the  streets,"  he  added,  thinking 
of  an  imperial  horse-chestnut  tree  which  had  thrust  a  branch 
bearing  pale  candles  of  bloom  against  his  window  out  there, 
"and  the  big  men  are  good  men  to  do  business.  But  not  for 
me.  Dirty  wood  houses  and  soot  coming  down  all  the  time 
on  the  bed.     Like  ashes  from  the  engines." 

"Like  London,"  said  Alice,  smiling. 

But  Mr.  Dainopoulos  had  been  living  on  a  somewhat 
higher  scale  in  London  and  he  had  not  noticed  the  dirt  so 
much.  Moreover,  he  could  always  get  the  food  he  wanted 
in  London. 

"Well,  where.'*"  insisted  Alice,  humouring  him. 

"There's  plenty  places,"  he  said  soberly,  rather  faint  as 
he  compared  their  present  surroundings  with  that  dream- 
villa  by  the  blue  sea.  "Too  soon  yet  to  be  sure  we  get 
there.  I  got  a  lot  of  business  to  finish  up  first.  And  we're 
all  right  here  for  a  while.     You're  not  lonesome,  darling.^" 

"Oh,  no!     You  saw  Evanthia  here  to-night. f*" 

"Yes,  I  saw  her,  but  she  didn't  tell  me  anything.'* 

"He's  gone  away,  with  the  consuls." 

Mr.  Dainopoulos  gave  a  low  whistle. 

"I  never  thought  about  that.  What'll  she  do  now? 
That's  bad  for  her,  though." 


COMMAND  97 

"She  wants  to  follow  him  but  I  don't  think  she  can.  I 
believe  she  heard  he'll  go  to  Constantinople.  She  said  she'd 
do  anything  to  get  there." 

"  Well,  if  she  wants  to  go  to  Constantinople,  she  might  be 
able  to,"  he  said,  pondering.  *'  I  heard  to-day  a  ship  might 
be  going  down  to  the  Islands.  There's  always  a  chance. 
I'll  see.  But  if  she's  got  any  sense  she'll  go  back  to  her 
mother.  That  feller  Lietherthal  is  good  company  but  he'll 
go  back  to  Munich  by-and-by." 

"She  doesn't  love  him,  I  am  almost  sure." 

"Evanthia,  she  don't  love  anybody  except  herself.  I  told 
you  that." 

"She  loves  me,"  said  Alice. 

"Well,  p'raps  she  does,  but  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"That  gentleman  this  evening,  Mr.  Spokesly,  he  was  in- 
terested in  her." 

"He's  got  a  young  lady  in  London,"  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos. 

"Has  he.^"  she  murmured  absently.  "Do  you  think  he'll 
come  to-morrow  night?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.  I  bet  you're  goin'  to  have  Evanthia  in, 
too." 

"Well,  perhaps  he'll  fall  in  love  with  her,"  she  whispered 
delightedly. 

"What,  and  him  with  a  young  lady  in  London!" 

"I  don't  think  he's  very  fond  of  his  young  lady  in  London." 

"Well,  how  do  you  know  that.?     Women.     .     .     ." 

"Never  mind.  It's  easy  to  tell  if  a  man  is  in  love,"  she 
answered,  watching  him.     He  held  her  tightly  for  a  moment. 

"Not  so  easy  to  tell  about  a  woman,"  he  said  into  her  hair. 
"Is  it,  my  little  wife,  my  little  wife.?*" 

"Why,  don't  you  know  yet.?* "  she  bantered,  giving  him  that 
secret,  fragrant,  ambiguous  smile. 

"My  little  wife!"  he  repeated  in  a  tense  whisper.  And  as 
he  said  it,  he  felt  in  his  heart  he  would  never  know. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IT  WAS  evening  and  the  Tanganyika,  a  tall  unwieldy  bulk, 
for  she  had  only  a  few  hundred  tons  in  her,  lay  at  anchor 
waiting  for  her  commander,  who  was  ashore  getting  the 
ship's  papers.  She  was  about  to  sail  for  Alexandria,  carry- 
ing back,  through  an  area  infested  with  enemy  submersi- 
bles,  some  of  the  cargo  already  discharged  and  reloaded  in 
the  southern  port.  This  apparently  roundabout  method  of 
achieving  results  had  in  it  neither  malice  nor  inefficiency. 
Those  who  have  had  anything  to  do  with  military  matters 
will  understand  the  state  of  affairs,  and  the  seemingly  insane 
evolutions  of  units  proceeding  blindly  upon  orders  from 
omnipotent  commanders.  The  latter  had  ever  before  them 
the  shifting  conditions  of  a  dozen  theatres  of  war,  and  to 
them  it  was  nothing  that  a  crate  of  spark-plugs,  for  example, 
sorely  needed  in  Persia,  should  be  carried  to  and  fro  over 
the  waters  of  the  ^gean,  or  that  locomotives  captured  from 
an  Austrian  transport  and  suitable  for  the  Macedonian 
railroads  should  be  rusting  in  the  open  air  in  Egypt.  These 
men,  scoured  clean  and  pink  as  though  with  sand  and  boil- 
ing water  every  morning,  in  their  shining  harness  and  great 
gold-peaked  hats,  moved  swiftly  in  high-powered  motor 
cars  from  one  consultation  to  another,  the  rows  of  medal 
ribbons  glowing  on  their  breasts  like  iridescent  plumage. 
They  lived  in  a  world  apart.  For  them  it  was  inevitable 
that  a  whole  fleet  of  ships  should  be  no  more  than  a  micro- 
scopic point  in  some  great  curve  named  Supply.  Behind 
them  was  a  formidable  element  called  Politics,  a  power  which 
appeared  to  them  to  come  out  of  Bedlam  and  which  would 
suddenly  change  its  course  and  make  the  labour  of  months 
of  no  avail.  Their  eyes  were  steadily  fixed  upon  certain 
military  dispositions,  and  they  sent  forth,  from  their  lofty 


COMMAND  99 

stations,  standing  orders  which  enclosed  each  subordinate 
commander  in  an  isolated  compartment,  beyond  which  he 
could  not  possibly  wander,  but  within  which  he  could  ex- 
ercise a  practically  god-like  power.  This  system,  admirable 
because  it  relieved  each  executive  from  any  concern  with 
the  final  upshot  of  the  struggle,  ultimately  reached  the 
Tanganyika.  Her  captain,  receiving  his  instructions  from 
the  Naval  Transport  office,  found  himself  in  sole  charge  of  life 
and  property  upon  her,  while  for  subsequent  sailing  orders  he 
was  referred  to  the  commanding  officer  of  a  sloop  now  moving 
slowly  towards  the  boom.  Captain  Meredith  in  no  wise  ob- 
jected to  this.  What  struck  him  with  ironical  emphasis  was 
the  ineffectiveness  of  military  traditions  when  applied  to  a 
ship  with  a  civilian  crew.  He  might  issue  orders,  but  who 
was  to  foreshadow  the  effect  on  the  minds  of  the  Orientals 
who  steered  and  stoked  and  oiled  below?  What  might  he 
expect  in  a  sudden  disaster  from  those  yellow  enigmas  pad- 
ding to  and  fro  or  sitting  on  their  hams  drinking  rice-water 
and  staring  at  the  shores  of  Macedonia  with  unfathomable 
eyes?  He  had  been  asked  if  in  his  opinion  the  crew  were 
loyal,  and  he  had  wondered  how  any  one  could  find  that  out. 
Loyalty,  when  you  came  to  place  it  under  analysis,  pre- 
sented a  somewhat  baffiing  problem.  It  was  like  trying  to 
find  out  whether  men  were  religious.  The  assumption,  of 
course,  was  that  all  men  had  in  them,  deep  down,  something  of 
ultimate  probity.  But  of  what  use  was  that  in  such  a  sudden 
emergency  as  confronted  one  at  sea  these  days?  Captain 
Meredith  refrained  from  dwelling  too  long  upon  probabilities 
as  he  returned  to  the  Tanganyika.  He  hoped  he  would  get 
through  all  right  again.  He  had  heard  hints  of  a  cargo  for 
Basra,  in  the  Persian  Gulf;  and  until  they  could  get  him  a 
white  crowd  he  would  rather  not  take  any  more  risks  in  the 
iEgean.  The  longer  the  war  went  on  the  less  important 
seemed  abstractions  like  loyalty  or  patriotism,  and  the  more 
shiningly  important  the  need  for  "unimaginative  and  quick- 
witted efficiency.  There  lay  the  trouble.  The  naval  or 
military  commander  had  behind  him  the  prestige  and  power 
of  service  discipline  and  he  was  supported  in  his  ruthless 


100  COMMAND 

judgments  by  the  rank  and  file.  The  naval  officer  spoke  his 
orders  in  a  quiet,  refined  voice,  and  massive  muscular  blue- 
jackets, drilled  for  years,  sprang  smartly  to  carry  them  out. 
Here,  Captain  Meredith  reflected,  it  was  not  quite  like  that. 
Seamen  in  merchant  ships  were  largely  individualists.  Had 
they,  for  example,  been  forced  by  law  to  go  to  sea  immediately 
after  being  sunk,  they  would  almost  inevitably  have  rebelled 
and  sulked  ashore.  Being  free  agents,  they  were  filled  with 
fury,  and  mobbed  shipowners  to  send  them  out  again.  This 
was  the  good  side.  The  bad  side  was  the  difficulty  in  getting 
them  to  obey  orders.  Moreover,  as  was  made  plain  during 
his  recent  interview  with  the  officers  in  the  Transport  Depart- 
ment, his  own  class,  the  commanders,  had  something  to  learn 
about  doing  as  they  were  bid.  They  had  shown  him  a 
Weekly  Order,  just  in  from  Malta,  demonstrating  the  urgent 
necessity  of  all  captains  carrying  out  their  instructions.  The 
huge  Afganistan,  triple  screws  and  with  four  thousand  souls 
on  board,  had  been  sunk  and  many  lost,  while  her  escort  was 
awaiting  her  two  hundred  miles  to  the  south.  It  was 
pointed  out  to  Captain  Meredith  that  the  Afganistan  was 
lost  simply  because  her  commander  had  disobeyed  explicit 
orders  given  at  Port  Said.  Well!  It  was  not  pleasant,  but 
had  to  be  borne.  This  was,  he  supposed,  being  faithful  unto 
death.  He  climbed  on  board,  waved  good-bye  to  the  lieu- 
tenant in  the  launch,  and  ordered  the  anchor  up. 

Mr.  Spokesly  was  waiting  at  the  gangway  for  that  very 
purpose  and  went  forward  at  once.  Captain  Meredith,  on 
reaching  his  room,  rang  the  bell.  The  second  steward 
appeared  at  the  door,  a  long  lubberly  lout  with  yellow  hair 
plastered  athwart  a  dolichocephalous  cranium  and  afflicted 
with  extraordinarily  unlovely  features. 

"Where  is  the  chief  steward?**  the  captain  demanded. 

"In  'is  room,  sir.  I  was  to  sye,  sir,  as  'e  ain't  feelin'  very 
well  this  afternoon,  sir,  if  you'll  excuse  'im." 

"Drunk,  I  suppose,"  said  the  commander  quietly. 

"Ow,  it's  not  for  me  to  sye,  sir,"  the  creature  whinnied, 
moving  enormous  feet  encased  in  service  shoes  pilfered  from 
cargo.     "Was  it  tea  you  was  wantin*,  sir?" 


COMMAND  101 

"Bring  it,"  said  Captain  Meredith,  regarding  him  with 
extreme  disfavour,  and  the  man  disappeared. 

Not  much  chance  there,  thought  the  captain,  as  he  noted 
the  awkward  knuckly  hands,  with  nails  bitten  to  the  quick, 
which  arranged  the  tray  before  him  and  made  a  number  of 
the  indescribable  motions  peculiar  to  stewards.  Hands! 
How  marvellously  they  indicated  character!  He  was  re- 
minded afresh  of  his  own  brother-in-law,  a  surgeon,  of  whose 
death  in  action  he  had  learned  during  the  week.  Wonderful 
hands  he  had  had,  long  with  broad  shallow  points,  indicative 
of  a  very  fine  skill  with  the  knife.  Now  he  was  dead;  and  this 
creature  here  would  no  doubt  survive  and  prosper  when  it 
was  all  over.  The  captain  had  been  thinking  a  good  deal 
during  the  past  few  days.  An  old  friend  of  his,  a  school- 
master in  happier  times,  had  suddenly  descended  upon  him, 
a  bronzed  person  in  khaki  with  a  major's  crowns  on  his 
shoulder-straps.  Had  a  few  days'  leave  from  the  Struma 
front.  He  was  not  elated  at  his  rise  in  rank,  it  transpired, 
for  it  had  simply  been  a  process  of  rapid  elimination.  All  the 
senior  officers  had  been  killed;  and  here  he  was,  an  old  gray 
badger  of  an  elderly  lieutenant  promoted  to  major.  There 
was  a  lull  on  the  Struma,  he  said,  his  tired,  refined  voice  con- 
cealing the  irony.  Very  delightful  to  have  a  few  days'  peace 
on  a  ship  with  a  friend.  Now  he  was  back  on  the  Struma; 
and  perhaps  next  time  Captain  Meredith  got  news  there 
would  be  another  gap  in  that  little  staflP.  He  stepped  out  on 
the  bridge.     The  anchor  was  coming  up. 

Mr.  Spokesly  was  thinking,  too,  in  spite  of  the  immediate 
distraction  of  heaving-up.  It  had  been  a  week  of  extraor- 
dinary exf)eriences  for  him.  As  he  leaned  over  the  rail  and 
looked  down  into  the  waters  of  the  Gulf,  and  noted  the 
immense  jelly-fish,  like  fabled  amethysts,  moving  gently 
forward  to  the  faint  rhythmic  pulsing  of  their  delicate  fringes, 
he  began  to  doubt  afresh  his  identity  with  the  rather  banal 
person  who  had  left  England  a  couple  of  short  months  before. 
He  found  himself  here  now,  outwardly  the  same,  yet  within 
there  was  a  readjustment  of  forces  and  values  that  at  times 
almost  scared  him.     For  he  had  reached  a  position  from 


102  COMMAND 

which  it  was  impossible  to  gauge  the  future.  Nothing  would 
ever  be  the  same  again.  He  was  frankly  astonished  at  his 
own  spiritual  resources.  He  had  not  known  that  he  was 
capable  of  emotions  so  far  removed  from  a  smug  common- 
place. Love,  as  he  had  conceived  it,  for  example,  had  been 
an  affair  of  many  oppressive  restrictions,  an  affair  of  ultimate 
respectability  and  middle-aged  affection.  Oh,  dear,  no!  It 
appeared  to  be  a  different  thing  entirely.  He  discovered 
that  once  one  was  thoroughly  saturated  with  it,  one  stepped 
out  of  all  those  ideas  as  out  of  a  suit  of  worn  and  uncomfort- 
able clothing.  Indeed,  one  had  no  need  of  ideas  at  all.  One 
proceeded  through  a  series  of  transmigrations.  One  arrived 
at  conclusions  by  a  species  of  intuition.  Life  ceased  to  be  an 
irritating  infliction  and  became  a  grand  panorama. 

And  yet  in  the  present  situation  what  did  it  all  amount  to? 
With  its  well-known  but  inexplicable  rapidity,  rumour  had 
already  gone  round  the  ship  hinting  at  a  trip  to  the  Persian 
Gulf.  If  that  were  so,  Mr.  Spokesly,  by  all  the  laws  of  prob- 
ability, would  never  be  in  Saloniki  again.  Yet  he  was  quite 
confident  that  he  would  be  in  Saloniki  again.  He  had  no 
clear  notion  of  what  he  proposed  to  do  when  he  reached 
Alexandria,  but  he  was  determined  to  manage  it  somehow. 
He  had  a  feeling  that  he  was  matched  against  fate  and  that  he 
would  win.  He  did  not  yet  comprehend  the  full  significance 
of  what  he  called  fate.  He  was  unaware  that  it  is  just  when 
the  gods  appear  to  be  striving  against  us  that  they  need  the 
most  careful  watching  lest  they  lure  us  to  destroy  ourselves. 
He  was  preoccupied  with  the  immediate  past;  which  he  did 
not  suspect  is  the  opiate  the  gods  use  when  they  are  preparing 
our  destinies.  And  while  he  was  sure  enough  in  his  private 
mind  that  he  would  get  back  to  Saloniki  somehow,  the  slow 
movement  of  the  Tanganyika  as  she  came  up  on  her  anchor 
gave  the  episode  an  appearance  of  irrevocable  completeness. 
He  was  departing.  Somewhere  among  those  trees  beyond 
the  White  Tower,  trees  that  shared  with  everything  else  in 
Saloniki  an  appearance  of  shabby  and  meretricious  glamour, 
like  a  tarnished  and  neglected  throne,  was  Evanthia  Solaris. 
And  the  ship  was  moving.     The  anchor  was  coming  up  and 


COMMAND  103 

the  ship  was  going  slow  ahead.  Mr.  Spokesly  looked  down 
at  the  water  that  was  gushing  through  the  hawse-pipe  and 
washing  away  the  caked  mud  from  the  links  and  shackles. 
As  far  as  he  could  see  he  was  going  back  to  Alexandria,  back 
by  devious  ways  to  London,  and  Evanthia  Solaris,  with  her 
amber  eyes,  her  high-piled  glossy  black  hair  and  swift,  menac- 
ing movements,  would  be  no  more  than  an  alluring  memory. 
And  as  the  anchor  appeared  and  the  windlass  stopped  heaving 
while  the  men  hosed  the  mud  from  the  flukes,  Mr.  Spokesly 
began  to  realize,  with  his  new-found  perception,  that  what  he 
took  to  be  confidence  was  only  desire.  He  was  imagining 
himself  back  there  in  Saloniki;  a  man  without  ties  or  obli- 
gations. He  saw  an  imaginary  Spokesly  seizing  Evanthia 
and  riding  off  into  the  night  with  her,  riding  into  the  interior, 
regardless  of  French  sentries  with  their  stolid  faces  and 
extremely  long  bayonets.  As  he  recapitulated  the  actual 
conditions  he  saw  he  had  only  been  dreaming  of  going  back 
there.  He  had  drawn  all  the  money  he  could  and  he  owed 
Archy  Bates  a  ten-pound  note.  Stowed  away  under  his 
clothes  in  his  cabin  he  had  nearly  an  oke,  which  is  about 
three  pounds,  of  a  dark  brown  substance  which  Mr.  Daino- 
poulos  had  mentioned  was  worth  eighty  pounds  in  Egypt  if 
it  were  adroitly  transferred  to  the  gentleman  who  had  ex- 
pressed his  willingness  to  do  business  with  the  friends  of  Mr. 
Bates.  Here  lay  the  beginnings  of  that  desire,  it  seemed. 
That  eighty  pounds  might  put  Mr.  Spokesly  in  a  position 
to  go  where  he  liked.  It  might;  but  the  chances  were  that 
Mr.  Spokesly  would  fail  to  get  away  from  himself  after  all. 
It  is  not  so  easy  to  be  an  outlaw  as  it  appears,  when  one  has 
been  one  of  the  respectable  middle  classes  for  so  long.  The 
seaman  is  as  carefully  indexed  as  a  convict,  and  has  very  little 
more  chance  in  ordinary  times  of  getting  away.  Mr.  Spokesly 
knew  that  and  had  no  such  notion  in  his  head.  What  he  did 
meditate  was  some  indirect  retirement  from  the  scene,  when 
a  pocketful  of  loose  cash  would  enable  him  to  effect  a  desirable 
manoeuvre  in  a  dignified  manner,  and  he  would  have  no  need 
to  forfeit  his  own  opinion  of  himself.  The  temperament  of 
the  crook  may  sometimes  be  innate,  but  in  most  cases  it  is  the 


104  COMMAND 

result  of  a  long  apprenticeship.  Mr.  Spokesly  wanted 
money,  he  wanted  a  command,  he  even  wanted  romance; 
but  he  did  not  want  to  be  wicked.  He  could  no  more  get 
away  from  Haverstock  Hill,  North  West  London,  than 
could  Mrs.  Dainopoulos  with  all  her  romantical  equipment. 
Therein  lay  the  essential  difference  between  himself  and  Mr. 
Dainopoulos,  who  also  desired  respectability,  but  who  had 
in  reserve  a  native  facility  for  swift  and  secret  chicanery. 
Mr.  Dainopoulos  slipped  in  and  out  of  the  law  as  easily  as  a 
lizard  through  the  slats  of  a  railing.  Mr.  Spokesly  could  not 
do  that,  he  discovered  to  his  own  surprise  and  perhaps  regret. 
Unknown  to  himself,  the  austere  integrity  of  distant  ancestors 
and  the  hard  traditions  of  an  ancient  calling  combined  to 
limit  his  sphere  of  action.  The  reason  why  many  of  us  re- 
main merely  useful  and  poverty-stricken  nonentities  is  that 
we  can  serve  no  other  purpose  in  the  world.  We  lack  the 
flare  for  spectacular  exploits;  and  even  the  war,  which  was  to 
cleanse  and  revitalize  the  world,  has  left  us  very  much  as  we 
were,  the  victims  of  integrity. 

When  he  had  seen  the  anchor  made  fast  and  the  com- 
pressors screwed  tight,  Mr.  Spokesly  went  aft  to  get  his  tea. 
He  was  to  go  on  watch  at  eight.  This  was  the  Captain's 
idea,  he  reflected.  They  were  supposed  to  pick  up  a  new 
third  mate  in  Alexandria.  In  the  meanwhile  the  Captain 
w^as  taking  a  watch.  It  was  very  unsatisfactory,  but 
what  was  one  to  do.?^  The  Old  Man  had  been  very 
quiet  about  the  shore-going  in  Saloniki.  Hardly  left  the 
ship  himself.  Had  that  friend  of  his,  a  major,  living 
in  the  spare  cabin.  Whiskies  and  sodas  going  upstairs 
too,  the  second  steward  had  mentioned.  Too  big  to 
notice  what  his  own  officers  were  doing,  no  doubt.  If  he 
knew  what  his  chief  officer  was  doing!  By  Jove!  Mr. 
Spokesly  was  suddenly  inflated,  as  he  sat  eating  his  tea,  with 
extraordinary  pride.  He  had  recalled  the  moment  when  he 
had  walked  into  the  concert-hall  of  the  White  Tower  Gardens 
with  Evanthia  Solaris.  The  proudest  moment  of  his  life. 
Every  officer  in  the  room  had  stared.  Every  woman  had 
glared  at  the  slim  svelte  form  with  the  white  velvet  toque  set 


COMMAND  105 

off  by  a  single  spray  of  osprey.  As  well  they  might,  since 
they  had  never  seen  her  before.  They  had  seen  the  toque, 
however,  in  Stein's  Oriental  Store,  and  had  wondered  who 
had  bought  it.  And  as  they  had  moved  through  the  dense 
throng  of  little  tables  surrounded  by  officers  and  cocottes, 
amid  a  clamour  of  glasses  and  laughter  and  scraping  chairs, 
with  music  on  the  distant  stage,  Mr.  Spokesly  experienced 
a  new  pleasure.  They  sat  down  and  ordered  beer.  Up- 
stairs a  number  of  Russian  officers,  in  their  beautiful  soft 
green  uniforms,  were  holding  a  girl  over  the  edge  of  a  box  and 
enjoying  her  screams.  Someone  threw  a  cream  cake  at  the 
girl  who  was  singing  on  the  stage  and  it  burst  on  her  bosom, 
and  everyone  shrieked  with  laughter.  The  girl  went  into 
a  paroxysm  of  rage  and  snarled  incomprehensibly  at  them 
before  flinging  out  of  sight,  and  they  all  bawled  with  merri- 
ment. It  was  rich.  Suddenly  the  Russian  officers  pushed 
the  girl  over  the  edge  of  the  box  and  she  dangled  by  her  wrists. 
The  audience  howled  as  she  kicked  and  screamed.  The 
uproar  became  intolerable.  Officers  of  all  nations  rose  to 
their  feet  and  bawled  with  excitement.  One  of  them  put  a 
chair  on  a  table  and  reached  up  until  he  could  remove  the 
dangling  girl's  shoe.  It  was  filled  with  champagne  and 
passed  round.  The  girl  was  drawn  up  and  disappeared  into 
the  box.  The  manager  appeared  on  the  stage  to  implore 
silence  and  order.  Someone  directed  a  soda-siphon  at  him 
and  he  retired,  drenched.  Finally  a  large^  placard  was  dis- 
played which  informed  the  audience  that  ''A  cause  du  tapage 
le  spectacle  estfini,''  and  the  curtain  descended.  They  went 
out  into  the  gardens,  Evanthia  holding  his  arm  and  taking 
short  prinking  little  steps.  Why  had  she  wanted  to  go  to 
such  a  place.?  He  was  obliged  to  admit  she  hardly  seemed 
aware  of  the  existence  of  the  people  around  her.  She  sat 
there  sipping  her  beer,  smiling  divinely  when  she  caught 
his  eye,  yet  with  an  air  of  invincible  abstraction,  as  though 
under  some  enchantment.  Mr.  Spokesly  was  puzzled,  as  he 
would  always  be  puzzled  about  women.  Even  his  robust 
estimate  of  his  own  qualification  as  a  male  was  not  sufficient 
to  explain  the  sudden  mysterious  change  in  Evanthia  Solaris. 


106  COMMAND 

Was  she  afraid,  she  who  gave  one  the  impression  of  being 
afraid  of  nothing?  But  Mr.  Spokesly  was  not  qualified  to 
comprehend  a  woman's  moods.  His  destiny,  his  function, 
precluded  it.  He  never  completely  grasped  the  fact  that 
women,  being  realists,  see  love  as  it  really  is,  and  are  shocked 
back  into  a  world  of  ideal  emotions  where  they  can  experiment 
without  imperilling  their  sense  of  daintiness  and  vestal  dedi- 
cation to  a  god.  And  Evanthia  Solaris  was  experimenting 
now.  Her  liaison  with  the  gay  and  debonair  creature  who 
had  journeyed  out  of  Saloniki  that  night  with  the  departing 
consuls  had  been  an  inspiration  to  her  to  speculate  upon  the 
ultimate  possibilities  of  emotional  development.  Just  now 
she  was  quiet,  as  a  spinning  top  is  quiet,  her  thoughts,  her 
conjectures,  merely  revolving  at  high  speed.  With  the 
quickness  of  instinct  she  had  admitted  this  friend  of  Mrs. 
Dainopoulos  to  a  charming  and  delicate  comradeship  com- 
mitting her  to  nothing.  That  he  should  love,  of  course,  went 
without  saying.  She  was  debating,  however,  and  revolving 
in  her  shrewd  and  capable  brain,  how  to  use  him.  And  it 
gave  her  that  air  of  diffident  shyness  blended  with  saucy 
courage  which  made  him  feel,  now  he  was  soberly  eating  his 
tea  on  board  the  Tanganyika^  outward  bound,  that  she  was  a 
sorceress  who  had  thrown  an  enchantment  about  him.  And 
he  wanted,  impossible  as  he  knew  it  to  be,  to  go  back  there 
and  resign  himself  again  to  the  enchantment,  closing  his 
eyes,  and  leaving  the  denouement  to  chance.  No  doubt  the 
novelty  of  such  a  course  appealed  to  him,  for  he  came  of  a 
race  whose  history  is  one  long  war  against  enchantments  and 
the  poisonous  fumes  of  chance.  He  went  on  stolidly  eating 
his  tea,  substantial  British  provender,  pickled  pig's  feet, 
beet-and-onion  salad,  stewed  prunes,  damson  jam,  and  tea  as 
harsh  as  an  east  wind.  He  loitered  over  the  second  cup, 
while  the  second  steward  passed  behind  him  with  a  napkin, 
eager  for  him  to  finish,  for  that  gentleman  intended  to  gorge, 
while  Archy  Bates  was  indisposed,  on  pig's  feet  and  pickled 
walnuts.  Mr.  Spokesly  loitered  because  he  knew,  when  he 
was  once  again  in  his  own  cabin,  that  he  would  be  facing  a 
problem  which  makes  all  men,  except  artists  and  scoundrels. 


COMMAND  107 

uneasy.  The  problem  was  Ada.  He  did  not  want  to  think 
about  Ada,  a  girl  who  was  in  an  unassailable  position  as  far 
as  he  was  concerned.  He  wanted  her  to  stay  where  she  was, 
in  beleaguered  England,  until  he  was  ready  to  go  back,  until 
he  had  regained  command  of  himself.  He  rose  up  suddenly 
and  went  along  to  his  cabin.  His  idea  was  that  Ada  should 
wait  for  him,  wait  while  he  went  through  this  extraordinary 
experience.  His  mind  even  went  forward  and  planned  the 
episode.  He  would  get  the  money  in  Alexandria,  get  out  of 
the  ship  somehow,  return  to  Saloniki  .  .  .  and  when 
the  war  was  over  he  would  of  course  return  to  England  and 
find  Ada  waiting  for  him.  It  was  an  admirable  scheme  and 
more  frequently  carried  out  than  Mr.  Spokesly  was  aware. 
Yet  he  was  secretly  ashamed.  He  had  also  a  vague,  illogical 
notion  that,  after  all,  he  was  not  contemplating  any  real 
infidelity  to  Ada  since  he  fully  intended  to  return  to  her.  He 
was  very  confused  in  his  mind.  He  was  not  accustomed  to 
such  crises.  He  took  up  the  little  green  pamphlets  of  the 
London  School  of  Mnemonics.  An  aphorism  caught  his 
eye.  Be  sure  your  chin  will  find  you  out.  The  idea  was 
expanded  in  an  essay  on  forcefulness  of  character.  The 
theory  propounded  was  that  we  have  all  of  us  a  minute  germ 
of  character  force  which  by  exercise  and  correct  training  can 
be  developed  into  a  formidable  engine  for  the  acquisition  of 
power,  position,  and  wealth.  Another  aphorism  ran:  Train 
the  muscles  of  your  mind.  Just  as  the  use  of  dumb-bells 
brought  out  rippling  rolls  of  muscle  under  a  satin  skin,  so  the 
use  of  the  Mnemonic  method  of  Intensive  Excogitation 
rounded  out  the  sinews  of  the  mind  and  gave  a  glistening 
polish  to  the  conversation.  Above  all,  it  augmented  one's 
cerebral  vitality.  One  became  a  forceful  personality  and 
exerted  a  magnetic  influence  over  women.     .     .     . 

Mr.  Spokesly's  feet  hurt  him  sHghtly.  He  went  along  to 
the  pantry  and  ordered  a  bucket  of  hot  water,  and  proceeded 
to  go  the  rounds  of  the  ship  to  see  that  all  ports  and  doors  were 
screened.  His  feet  hurt  him.  And  it  seemed  to  him  that  his 
mind  hurt  him  in  very  much  the  same  way.  He  was  in  a 
mood  which  people  like  the  London  School  of  Mnemonics 


108  COMMAND 

dread  and  deprecate  more  than  anything  else,  a  mood  which 
renders  suddenly  valueless  millions  of  dollars'  worth  of  ad- 
vertising, which  empties  theatres  and  leaves  the  purveyors 
of  commodities  with  warehouses  crammed  with  moribund 
stock.  He  was  suspicious.  He  had  suddenly  perceived  in 
a  dim  way  the  complete  and  humorous  fallacy  of  trying  to 
become  somebody  else  through  the  mails.  It  did  not  present 
itself  to  him  in  this  form.  He  was  not  clever  enough  to  get 
anything  so  clear  as  that.  The  London  School  of  Mnemonics 
prospered  exclusively  upon  people  who  lacked  the  power  of 
coherent  thought.  But  he  had  become  suspicious.  He  had 
lost  faith,  not  in  himself,  but  in  the  resources  of  ultra-modern 
advertising.  He  was  beginning  to  wonder  what  Mr.  Daino- 
poulos  would  say  to  the  theory  of  Intensive  Excogitation. 
Mr.  Spokesly  did  not  realize  it,  of  course,  but  the  mere  fact 
that  he  was  losing  faith  in  the  London  School  of  Mnemonics 
was  evidence  of  his  progress  in  life.  So  much  Evanthia 
Solaris  had  already  done  for  him.  She  had  induced  in  him  a 
certain  contempt  and  cantankerous  suspicion  of  life.  He  saw 
himself  with  appalling  clearness  as  the  mate  of  a  transport, 
quarrelling  with  dirty,  insolent  engineers  who  could  not  be 
induced  to  blind  the  scuttles  of  their  cabins  properly.  And 
as  he  came  back  from  the  forecastle  he  heard  Captain  Mere- 
dith's quiet  voice.  The  captain  wanted  the  fall  of  the  big 
steel  boom  made  more  secure.  This  boom  was  kept  up 
against  the  mast,  since  it  was  too  long  to  lay  down.  Mr. 
Spokesly  blew  his  whistle.  The  bosun  and  a  couple  of  seamen 
came  out  and  began  bending  the  heavy  fall  about  the  bollards 
near  the  standing  rigging.  Then  they  hauled  on  the  guys 
which  brought  the  boom  hard  up  against  the  mast,  and  it 
appeared  from  the  silence  of  the  commander  that  he  was 
satisfied.  That,  thought  Mr.  Spokesly,  was  what  you  had  to 
put  up  with.  He  himself  had  sent  a  man  up  to  the  cross- 
trees  hours  ago  to  make  fast  the  head  of  the  boom.  The  man 
had  not  mentioned  the  fact  that  the  dead-eye  was  loose  up 
there,  for  the  reason  that  he  was  a  young  chap  and  did  not 
notice  it.  While  the  guys  held  the  boom  up  he  had  slipped 
the  pin  into  place  and  climbed  down.     And  this  was  what  one 


COMMAND  109 

had  to  put  up  with.  Impossible  to  give  satisfaction.  Day 
after  day.  Nag,  nag,  nag.  Mr.  Spokesly  went  back  to  his 
cabin  and  found  Archy  Bates  sitting  on  the  settee. 

Archy  was  in  that  mood  which  follows  heavy  drinking  by 
the  initiated.  Archy  was  always  ready  for  each  mood  as  it 
came  and  made  the  most  of  it.  With  a  confidence  that  re- 
sembled to  an  extraordinary  degree  the  faith  of  an  inspired 
fanatic,  he  gave  himself  over  to  the  service  of  the  god  for  the 
time  being.  Coming  back  from  ashore  he  had  fallen  out  of 
the  boat  into  the  water  and  then  fallen  off  the  gangway 
into  the  boat  again;  yet  his  faith  in  his  star  never  faltered. 
WTien  the  boat  drifted  from  the  grating  he  had  assumed  a 
stern  expression,  and  raising  his  arms  proceeded  to  walk 
across  the  water.  When  Archy  was  in  that  benign  mood  inci- 
dental to  his  return  from  a  souse,  there  was  nothing  in  the 
world  to  prevent  him  walking  on  v/ater  or  ascending  into  the 
air,  should  he  deem  it  a  dignified  thing  to  do.  There  was 
something  rather  awful,  to  one  who  believed  in  the  laws  of 
nature,  in  the  inebriated  accuracy  of  Archy 's  movements  along 
intricate  alleyways,  through  doors  and  up  ladders.  Through 
it  all  he  held  in  reserve  the  fixed  cat-grin  which  implied  a 
bemused  omniscience,  a  dreadful  knowledge  of  secret  human 
standards. 

But  that  mood  was  gone  and  he  sat  here  on  Mr.  Spokesly's 
settee,  smoking  a  cigarette,  completely  normal  and  master 
of  himself.  It  was  a  grotesque  feature  of  his  convalescence, 
this  austere  assumption  of  efficiency.  He  was  very  much 
upset  at  the  way  the  second  steward  had  made  a  mess  of 
things  that  afternoon.  Just  as  soon  as  he  took  his  eye  off 
him,  things  went  wrong.  It  was  most  discouraging.  And  he 
would  like  to  recommend  him  for  promotion,  too.  By  the 
way,  had  Mr.  Spokesly  heard  the  company  was  going  to  buy 
some  ships  ?  This  was  an  example  of  the  way  Archy  **  heard  " 
of  things.  No  one  could  tell  how  he  got  hold  of  the  mo^ 
secret  information  while  stewed.  Mr.  Spokesly  was  not 
alert.  He  made  no  comment,  not  realizing  how  nearly  that 
stray  remark  might  touch  him. 

It  was  a  fac*,  Archy  hiccoughed.    Going  to  buy  a  lot  of 


110  COMMAND 

ships.  So  he'd  heard.  He  paused,  trying  to  recapture  the 
thought.  Yes,  now  no  sooner  does  the  Old  Man  order  supper 
than  the  silly  josser  loses  his  head.  Ring,  ring,  ring,  the  Old 
Man  did.  Now  that  he  had  recaptured  it  the  thought  seemed 
less  important  than  he  had  imagined.  Mr.  Spokesly,  his 
friend,  with  whom  he  was  going  to  do  some  nice  little  business, 
didn't  seem  in  very  good  spirits.  Archy  bent  his  mind  to  the 
matter.  It  was  just  as  well  they  weren't  going  back  to 
Saloniki,  he  remarked  reflectively. 

"How  do  you  know?  And  why  just  as  well.?"  asked  Mr. 
Spokesly,  wishing  Archy  would  go  away.  He  wanted  to  be 
alone. 

"Didn't  you  know?"  said  Archy,  wondering.  "The  Old 
Man  said  so.  The  second  steward  overheard  something 
about  it  when  he  took  a  tray  up  when  the  N.  T.  O.  was  here 
this  morning.  We're  going  to  Calcutta.  Oh,  yes.  And  a 
good  job,  too." 

"Why?"  said  Mr.  Spokesly. 

Mr.  Bates  winked,  and  smiled  his  cat-grin. 

"Fact  is.  Mister,"  he  remarked  in  a  low  tone,  "I  went  a 
little  farther  than  I  intended.  Nice  little  widow  she  is,  and 
it  simply  wouldn't  do  for  me  to  be  seen  round  there  any  more. 
She  gave  me  this  as  a  keepsake."  And  Archy  drew  a  ring 
with  an  enormous  emerald  set  in  pearls  from  his  vest-pocket. 
He  put  it  on  his  little  finger  and  turned  it  about. 

"What!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Spokesly.  "Gave  you  that? 
Why,  it's  worth  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds." 

"  Three  hundred,"  corrected  Archy.  "  Easy !  Ah,  my  boy, 
you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  have  the  ladies  fancy  you. 
Straight,  Mister,  they're  a  nuisance." 

Mr.  Spokesly  looked  at  Archy  Bates  and  wondered  just 
how  much  of  this  was  true.  The  value  of  the  ring  staggered 
him,  as  well  it  might,  since  Archy,  who  always  pretended  to  be 
drunker  than  he  really  was,  had  discovered  it  in  the  uphol- 
stery of  an  ottoman  on  which  he  was  sprawled,  his  left  hand 
closing  over  it  and  moving  it  softly  into  his  pocket  while  the 
right  arm  had  encircled  the  waist  of  the  widow.  He  assumed 
she  was  a  widow,  of  course,  since  he  saw  nothing  of  her  hus- 


COMMAND  111 

band.  And  he  had  honestly  forgotten  it  until  after  he  had 
come  aboard.  He  really  had  some  difficulty  in  not  believing 
himself  that  she  had  given  it  to  him.  He  took  it  off  and 
handed  it  to  Mr.  Spokesly,  who  looked  puzzled. 

"Keep  it  for  me,"  Archy  said.  "I'm  very  careless.  I 
might  lose  it.     Give  it  to  me  in  Alexandria." 

"  Oh,  I'U  do  that,  aU  right."  Mr.  Spokesly  took  it.  "  I'll 
put  it  away." 

"You  got  it  all  right?  "  said  Archy,  meaning  the  dark  brown 
substance  concealed  in  among  the  clothes  in  Mr.  Spokesly 's 
drawers. 

"Yes,"  said  that  gentleman  shortly. 

"How  much  .  .  .  ?  That  all?  Why,  I  got  four  okes. 
Not  coming  back  here,  you  see.  I'll  keep  half  for  Calcutta. 
You  can  get  a  thousand  rupees  an  ounce  there.  Nearly — 
let's  see — nearly  five  hundred  pounds  an  oke.     Think  of  it!" 

Mr.  Spokesly  thought  of  it  and  wondered  what  sort  of 
fight  the  London  School  of  Mnemonics  would  put  up  against 
that  sort  of  thing.  Archy's  kind  of  success  was  very  hard  to 
dismiss  as  pure  luck.  He  scored  every  time.  He  made 
money,  he  enjoyed  life,  and  widows  were  "stuck  on  him," 
and  gave  him  costly  souvenirs.  What  efficiency  could  match 
this?  After  the  war  Archy  would  be  in  a  position  to  do  as  he 
had  occasionally  mentioned — buy  a  nice  little  tavern  and 
enjoy  himself  thoroughly.  His  wife  had  often  wanted  him  to 
do  it.  He  sat  there  on  the  settee,  blinking  and  smiling  in  his 
feline  way,  and  actually  seemed  to  exude  prosperity.  It  was 
nothing  to  him  that  Captain  Meredith  had  no  use  for  him. 
He  had  no  use  for  Captain  Meredith,  so  that  cancelled  out. 
Captain  Meredith  could  pay  him  ojff  any  time  he  liked. 
Archy  could  write  letters  to  the  Company  as  well  as  Captain 
Meredith,  come  to  that.  Just  for  a  moment  Mr.  Spokesly 
had  the  wild  notion  that  Archy  was  beyond  the  reach  of 
any  one  on  earth,  that  he  was  too  clever  to  be  caught. 

"Well,"  he  said  as  the  boy  appeared  with  the  bucket  of  hot 
water.     "I  go  on  at  eight,  Archy." 

Archy  got  up,  yawned,  and  stretched. 

"I  feel  a  bit  tired.     I  believe  I'll  have  a  sleep.     Rather 


112  COMMAND 

strenuous  evenin'  last  night,  not  half.  You  ought  to  have 
been  with  me,  Mister.  Some  little  piece.  Wanted  me  to 
stay.     .     .     .     Well,  I'll  say  good-night." 

There  it  was  again,  thought  Mr.  Spokesly.  Archy  could 
lie  on  his  settee  all  day,  recovering  from  his  cups,  and  now  he 
could  turn  in  and  have  a  comfortable  sleep.  Mr.  Spokesly 
removed  his  socks  and  lowered  his  feet  into  the  generous 
warmth.  That  was  better.  After  all,  a  man  had  to  depend 
on  himself.  Schools  of  Mnemonics  couldn't  do  much  when 
there  were  people  like  Archy  and  Dainopoulos  in  the  world. 
He  remembered  the  ring,  and  took  it  out  of  the  drawer  to  look 
at  it.  The  heart  of  the  emerald  shot  lambent  flames  at  him 
like  the  cool  green  shadows  beneath  a  waterfall.  He  saw 
it  on  the  slim,  supple  hand  of  Evanthia.  A  gust  of  strange 
feeling  shook  him  suddenly.  He  became  aware,  with  in- 
explicable poignancy,  of  the  mystical  correlation  between 
jewels  and  love,  as  though  precious  stones  were  only  the 
petrified  passions  of  past  days.  And  how  could  one  reconcile 
the  beauty  of  these  things,  and  the  fact  that  they  seemed  ever 
to  be  found  in  the  possession  of  ignoble  men.?  More  than 
a  year's  salary,  and  Archy  could  throw  it  to  him  to  keep  for 
him.  And  a  woman  had  given  it  to  him.  Mr.  Spokesly 
was  beginning  to  be  a  little  uncertain  of  his  own  knowledge 
of  women.  They  seemed  incalculable.  It  seemed  impossible 
to  chart  the  course  of  any  of  them  for  any  length  of  time. 
He  winced  as  he  wondered  what  Ada  would  say  if  she  knew 
what  he  was  up  to.  He  had  no  need  to  wonder.  He  knew 
perfectly  well  that  she  would  forgive  and  sympathize  and  let 
it  be  forgotten.  That  was  the  way  with  English  girls.  He 
realized  with  a  great  uplifting  of  the  heart  that  this  was  part 
of  the  Englishman's  goodly  heritage.  He  thought  of  himself, 
coming  home  at  last  to  Ada,  and  how  she  would  stroke  his  hair 
and  murmur  "silly  old  boy,"  and  he  would  be  at  peace. 
Peace!  In  the  meanwhile  there  was  the  war.  It  did  not 
look  so  very  good  for  the  time  being.  The  Germans  seemed 
an  uncommonly  tough  proposition.  Mr.  Spokesly  wondered 
why  all  those  military  men,  who  wrote  testimonials  for  the 
London  School  of  Mnemonics,  couldn't  show  their  amazingly 


COMMAND  113 

improved  mentality  by  giving  the  enemy  a  licking.  All  very 
well  to  write,  "Six  months  ago  I  was  a  sergeant:  now  I  am  a 
major-general,  and  I  consider  it  is  entirely  due  to  your 
System."  After  all,  what  we  needed  was  somebody  who 
could  keep  the  Fritzies  away  from  the  Channel  ports.  He 
sighed.  He  would  have  to  dry  his  feet  and  go  up  on  the 
bridge.  As  he  stood  up  to  open  a  drawer  to  find  a  fresh  pair 
of  socks  he  slipped  the  ring  into  his  trousers  pocket  and  forgot 
it. 

As  he  went  out  into  the  alleyway  to  go  forward,  the  last 
faint  streaks  of  light  were  vanishing  from  the  sullen  sky  over 
the  mountains  of  Thessaly  and  a  heavy  blanket  of  clouds  had 
come  up  from  the  eastward,  so  that  the  night  was  ideally  dark 
for  running  through  these  perilous  waters.  Ahead  of  the 
Tanganyika  could  be  seen  a  faint  light,  carefully  screened  so 
that  only  an  observer  high  up  and  astern  of  her  could  see  it 
at  all.  This  was  the  pilot  light  on  the  sloop,  and  Captain 
Meredith  mentioned  in  a  low  voice  the  necessity  of  keeping 
it  in  view,  as  otherwise  they  might  run  each  other  down,  it 
was  so  dark.  There  were  two  other  transports  behind,  one 
on  each  quarter,  who  would  also  need  watching.  They  had 
just  received  a  general  wireless  call  that  a  submarine-course 
had  been  observed  N.  by  N.-N.-E.  from  Skyros,  which  would 
bring  her  into  their  zone  about  one  in  the  morning.  Escort 
would  signal  change  of  course  by  a  red  light  shown  in  three 
periods  of  two  seconds  each.  And,  the  captain  added,  he 
himself  would  be  lying  on  his  settee  just  inside  the  door. 

He  vanished  in  the  intense  darkness  and  Mr.  Spokesly 
found  himself  high  up,  alone  in  that  darkness,  and  in  charge  of 
the  ship.  She  vibrated  strongly,  being  almost  in  ballast,  and 
rolled  perhaps  three  degrees  either  way  in  a  leisurely  rhythm. 
Along  her  sides  he  could  see  a  sheer  bottle-green  glow  from 
fore-foot  to  where  it  was  lost  in  the  white  cascade  churned 
up  by  the  emerging  propeller.  Beyond  this  one  could  only 
catch  a  sort  of  rushing  obscurity,  for  the  sea  was  smooth  and 
unbroken  by  the  long  invisible  swell.  The  clouds  now 
covered  the  whole  sky  so  that  one  could  see  nothing  on  the 
forecastle-head. 


114  COMMAND 

Mr.  Spokesly  paced  to  and  fro,  watching  the  faint  and 
occasionally  vanishing  light  on  the  escort.  He  ran  over  in  his 
mind  the  ship's  company  and  ruminated  on  their  various 
employments.  The  gunner  would  be  asleep  alongside  of  his 
gun;  for  of  what  use  was  it  to  stand  by  if  one  had  no  target? 
The  crew  were  all  asleep,  save  the  helmsman  and  the  two 
lookouts  on  the  forecastle.  The  chief  was  no  doubt  seated  in 
his  cabin  smoking  and  thinking  of  his  wife  and  children  in 
Maryport.  Mr.  Chippenham,  who  came  on  at  midnight,  was 
asleep.  And  there  would  be  Archy,  turned  in  without  a  care 
in  the  world.  Mr.  Spokesly 's  hand  came  in  contact  with  the 
ring  in  his  pocket.  He  must  not  forget  to  stow  it  away  safely 
when  he  went  below  again.  It  would  look  funny  if  he  lost  it. 
He  remembered  he  owed  Archy  a  ten-pound  note.  Must  pay 
that  in  Alexandria,  too.  Things  might  happen  in  Alexandria, 
he  reflected  with  pleasure.  There  was  that  talk  of  the  com- 
pany getting  more  ships — there  might  be  something  in  it. 
The  Old  Man  was  so  infernally  close-lipped  about  everything. 
Fancy  the  chief  officer  of  a  ship  having  to  get  that  sort  of 
news  from  a  steward,  just  because  the  captain  didn't  trust 
anybody!  He  threw  his  arms  up  on  the  dodger  and  stared 
into  the  darkness.  The  silence  was  broken  suddenly  by  the 
rhythmic  clatter  of  a  shovel-blade  against  iron — the  call  of 
the  fireman  to  the  coal-passers  for  more  coal.  They  shouldn't 
make  that  noise,  Mr.  Spokesly  thought  with  a  frown. 
Though,  come  to  that,  the  screw  was  making  noise  enough 
anyhow.  Every  now  and  again,  as  the  vibrations  of  the 
vessel  failed  to  synchronize,  a  low  muttering  rumble  came  up 
from  the  deck  members  culminating  in  hoarse  rattles  of  pipe- 
guards  and  loose  cowls,  and  running  aft  in  a  long  booming 
whine.  Mr.  Spokesly  strained  his  eyes  to  catch  the  pilot  light 
again.  Even  with  the  binoculars  he  could  not  distinguish 
the  sloop's  hull.  One  comfort,  they  were  not  zigzagging. 
It  would  only  increase  the  risk  of  collision  on  a  night  like  this. 
Another  thought  occurred  to  Mr.  Spokesly  as  he  looked  away 
from  the  glasses  for  a  moment.  He  felt  that  if  he  himself 
were  in  a  submarine  out  there  he  would  be  much  more  anxious 
to  avoid  a  ship  than  to  find  her.    The  chances  of  being  run 


COMMAND  115 

down  were  too  many.  He  did  not  realize  that  the  Tanganyika^ 
seen  from  sea  level,  was  a  solid  black  bulk,  jangling  and  boom- 
ing her  way  through  the  sea  and  leaving  an  immense  pathway 
of  phosphorescence  behind  her.  He  had  no  time  to  realize  it. 
He  had  no  time  to  adjust  himself  to  any  philosophical  possi- 
bilities before  it  came  with  a  crashing  roar  that  left  him,  for 
an  instant,  unconscious.  The  deck  and  the  bulwark  below 
him  heaved  up  and  burst  into  crooked  screaming  flames  as  the 
beams  and  plates  were  torn  asunder.  He  stood  with  his 
hands  gripping  the  top  of  the  dodger,  staring  hard  into  the 
murk,  and  then  he  comprehended.  He  flinched  sideways  as  a 
horrible  sound  smote  his  ears,  a  whine  rising  to  a  muffled 
shriek,  as  the  loosened  fall  of  the  big  boom  tore  through 
the  blocks,  and  the  boom  itself,  a  fifty-foot  steel  girder,  was 
coming  down.  As  he  reached  the  port-engine  telegraph, 
tugging  at  it  mechanically,  the  great  mass  struck  the  wheel- 
house  with  a  noise  of  rending  wood,  breaking  glass,  and  a  faint 
cry  that  ceased  at  once. 

Mr.  Spokesly  stood  for  perhaps  three  seconds  holding 
the  telegraph  handle,  and  he  heard  a  second  explosion,  a 
hollow  concussion  amidships  that  sent  a  great  column  of 
water  into  the  air  so  that  the  Tanganyika  seemed  to  have 
shipped  a  heavy  sea.  He  could  scarcely  appreciate  the 
importance  of  this.  He  turned  with  an  effort  towards  the 
wheel-house  and  captain's  quarters.  There  was  a  sound  of 
steam  escaping  somewhere  down  below.  The  boom  had 
crushed  through  the  bridge  rails  and  lay  across  his  path  as  he 
stepped  over.  And  there  was  a  dreadful  silence  up  there. 
Men  were  running  and  calling  down  below,  but  here  was 
silence.  The  steering  gear  was  demolished,  and  behind 
that  .  .  .  He  felt  sick.  He  took  a  step  down  the  ladder 
and  looked  again,  and  this  time  he  fell  forward  on  his  face. 
The  ship  had  gone  down  by  the  stem. 

"This  won't  do,"  he  muttered,  scrambling  up.  "Who's  in 
command?"  He  blew  his  whistle.  "Hi!  Tong  Pee!"  he 
called  to  the  helmsman.  Tong  Pee,  crushed  to  a  pulp  under 
the  binnacle,  made  no  reply.  He  had  never  been  a  communi- 
cative person,  Tong  Pee,  and  now  he  had  no  choice.     The 


116  COMMAND 

sudden  complete  comprehension  of  what  had  happened  be- 
hind Tong  Pee  sent  Mr.  Spokesly  down  the  ladder  in  a  panic. 
"This  is  no  good,"  he  said  anxiously  to  himself.  "No  good 
at  all."    And  he  blew  his  whistle  again  in  a  rage. 

But  the  men  on  the  boat-deck  were  in  no  mood  to  pay 
attention  to  whistles.  The  ship  was  going  down.  Her  after 
deck  was  under  water,  for  the  second  torpedo  had  hit  the 
engine  room  and  all  aft  was  flooded.  The  forward  hold 
was  light  and  was  keeping  her  bows  up  so  that  she  was 
gradually  assuming  a  vertical  position.  And  the  men  on  the 
boat-deck  were  crying  "Wah!  Wah!"  and  "Hoi!  Hoi!"  and 
stampeding  past  in  a  stream  towards  the  boats.  They  came 
up  staggering  with  piles  of  bedding,  with  corded  boxes  and 
crates  full  of  white  rats.  They  came  up  festooned  with 
mandolins  and  canaries  in  cages,  with  English  dictionaries 
and  back-numbers  of  the  Police  Gazette,  They  tore  each 
other  from  the  boats  and  stowed  their  treasures  with  long 
wailing  cries  of  "Hoi!  Hoi!"  They  slipped  and  slithered 
away  aft  in  heaps  and  fought  among  each  other  for  invisible 
personal  effects.  One  of  them  suddenly  showed  a  flashlight 
in  the  darkness  and  the  others  leapt  upon  him  to  take  it,  and 
it  ricochetted  away  into  the  scupper  and  went  out.  If  one 
of  them  by  infinite  toil  got  into  the  boat  the  others  tore  him 
away  with  howls  of  anguish.  And  the  deck  became  steeper. 
The  boats,  already  swung  out,  sagged  away  from  the  davits 
and  fouled  the  falls.  The  sound  of  scuttering  feet  and 
frantic  throats  was  lost  in  a  number  of  extraordinary  sounds 
from  below,  like  skyscrapers  collapsing  into  a  waterfall, 
as  the  boilers  carried  away  from  their  stools  and  crashed 
into  the  engines,  which  gave  way  also,  and  the  whole  mass, 
swirling  in  steam  like  the  interior  of  a  molten  planet,  plunged 
through  the  bulkheads  into  the  empty  holds.  And  then  the 
boats  began  to  fall  clear  and  some  of  the  struggling  beings 
about  them  dropped  away  into  the  void.  Mr.  Spokesly, 
hanging  to  the  rail  beneath  the  bridge,  found  himself  sobbing 
as  though  his  chest  would  burst.  He  took  off  his  coat  and 
threw  it  at  the  men  who  were  twined  in  a  knot  by  the  nearest 
davit.    The   Tanganyika  was  now  at  a  very  steep  angle. 


COMMAND  117 

Mr.  Spokesly  took  oflP  his  boots.  It  flashed  through  his  mind 
that  he  was  in  command.  "  Oh ! "  he  thought,  "  I  can't  leave 
her!'*  And  then  the  thought  of  the  others,  down  there,  in 
their  cabins,  and  the  loneHness  of  it  up  here  with  these  yellow 
maniacs,  pierced  his  heart.  "I  must  go,"  he  sobbed.  And 
indeed  he  had  to,  for  the  Tanganyika  was  going  down.  He 
could  hardly  keep  his  balance.  Hot  steam  was  blowing  up  in 
great  gray  gusts  from  the  fiddley-grating.  He  was  near  the 
water  now.     It  might  be  too  late.    He  jumped. 

For  a  moment  as  the  chill  of  the  water  struck  him,  for 
he  had  been  in  a  bath  of  sweat  as  he  stood  there  sobbing, 
he  thought  he  had  been  killed.  He  was  a  good  swimmer, 
for  they  had  made  a  point  of  it  in  his  old  training-ship.  He 
struck  out  away,  away  from  the  ship  as  fast  as  he  could.  He 
realized  more  keenly,  now,  how  dangerous  it  was  to  remain 
near.  Twelve,  thirteen,  fourteen,  fifteen  strokes.  He  turned 
over,  treading  water  and  shaking  the  moisture  from  his  eyes. 
He  was  horrified  to  find  how  close  he  was.  The  ship's  bows 
were  towering  over  him  and  wavering  to  and  fro.  And  as  he 
turned  to  get  farther  out,  he  felt  himself  raised  up  on  a  vast 
billow  of  smooth  water  that  was  rolling  in  over  the  Tangan- 
yika. He  was  carried  forward  and  whirled  over  and  over. 
With  something  that  was  almost  obstinacy  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  do  the  best  for  himself,  kept  his  mouth  shut  for  one 
thing,  and  avoided  wearing  himself  out  with  useless  efforts. 
And  he  suddenly  brought  up  against  something  that  nearly 
knocked  the  breath  out  of  his  body  and  scraped  all  the  skin 
off  his  face.  He  spread  his  arms  and  grasped.  He  thought 
hard  and  quick.  The  bow!  He  held  on.  It  was  not  going 
down,  but  up,  he  was  sure.  And  then,  to  his  surprise,  for  he 
really  had  no  authentic  belief  that  he  would  survive  this 
unusual  affair,  he  found  himself  out  of  the  water  hugging  a 
long  iron  ridge  that  trembled  just  awash. 

He  began  to  think  again.  The  mass  of  metal  to  which  he 
was  clinging  was  vibrating  as  though  from  a  series  of  heavy 
submarine  blows.  Huge  groans  and  sharp  cracks  communi- 
cated themselves  to  his  body.  He  had  no  faith  in  the  ship 
remaining  long  like  this.     In  all  probability  the  forward 


118  COMMAND 

hatch  would  get  stove  in  or  the  peak  would  fail  and  then,  with 
the  whole  ship  flooded,  she  would  go  down.  Away  off  he 
heard  a  heavy  detonation.  There  was  a  sparkle  of  red  fire 
and  a  crack  as  the  sloop  fired  a  three-pounder  into  the  dark- 
ness. He  caught  sight  of  a  faint  light  which  gave  him  her 
position.  Boom!  More  depth-charges.  Very  active  now, 
he  thought  with  unreasoning  bitterness,  now  it  was  all  over. 
He  saw  the  blur  of  the  sloop  moving  fast  towards  him.  He 
threw  his  leg  over  the  stem,  sat  up,  and  putting  two  fingers 
of  each  hand  in  his  mouth,  blew  a  piercing  whistle.  The 
next  moment  he  was  almost  blinded  as  a  searchlight  swept 
across  the  water  and  remained  fixed  upon  him.  It  was 
appalling,  that  intense  white  glare  showing  up  his  frightful 
loneliness  out  there  on  the  calm  heedless  sea.  The  beam 
wavered  and  vanished.  And  at  the  same  moment  some 
premonition  made  Mr.  Spokesly  prepare  to  move  off.  The 
Tanganyika  was  going  down.  Deep  bellowings  in  her 
interior  gave  warning.  He  decided  not  to  wait,  and  slipped 
into  the  water.  And  before  he  had  reached  the  boat  whose 
oars  he  heard  working  rapidly  just  ahead  of  him,  there  was  a 
final  swirl  and  hiccough  on  the  water,  and  the  Tanganyika 
was  gone. 

When  he  woke  it  was  some  twenty  hours  later,  for  the 
surgeon  had  bound  up  his  face  and  put  stitches  into  a  number 
of  lacerations  in  his  body,  and  had  given  him  cocaine  to  make 
him  sleep.  The  sloop  was  anchoring  down  by  the  flour  mills, 
and  looking  out  through  his  port-hole  Mr.  Spokesly  could  see 
the  gardens  of  the  White  Tower  of  Saloniki. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MR.  SPOKESLY  sat  at  a  little  distance  from  the  large 
table  in  the  Transport  OflSce  and  listened  to  the 
gentleman  with  four  rings  of  gold  lace  on  his  sleeve. 
It  was  a  lofty  and  desolate  place  in  the  yellow  stucco  building 
opposite  the  dock  entrance.  The  transport  officer  was  a 
naval  captain;  with  a  beard,  a  brisk  decisive  manner,  and  a 
very  foul  briar  pipe.  He  was  explaining  that  they  needed 
a  third  mate  for  a  ship  going  to  Basra  and  Mr.  Spokesly 
would  just  do  for  the  job  if  he  would  waive  his  right  to  a 
passage  home  and  go  to  Port  Said  instead.  It  was  at  this 
point  that  Mr.  Spokesly,  rather  shaky  still  from  his  immer- 
sion and  extensively  decorated  with  pieces  of  plaster,  took  a 
hand. 

"No,"  he  said  and  kept  his  gaze  on  the  floor. 

"Why  not?"  demanded  the  captain,  very  much  as- 
tonished. 

"No  reason's  far  as  I  know.  But  I*m  not  going  third 
mate  of  anything,  anywhere,  any  more.     That's  that." 

"Well,  of  course,  we  can't  force  you  to  go,  you  know." 

"I  know  you  can't." 

"But  we  shall  really  have  to  draw  the  attention  of  the 
owners  to  the  fact  that  you  refused  to  go." 

"That's  all  right.  But  I'm  not  going.  I'll  go  home  if  you 
don't  mind.  Or  if  I  can  get  a  job  here  I  take  it  my  articles 
finished  with  the  Tanganyika.^' 

"No  doubt,  no  doubt.     But  what  could  you  get  here.?" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  could  do.  But  I'd  shine  shoes  on 
the  steps  out  there  before  I  went  third  mate.     .     .     ." 

"There's  no  need  to  go  back  to  the  question  if  you  refuse  to 
volunteer." 

Mr.  Spokesly  stood  up.    He  was  in  a  rage.     Or  rather  he 

119 


120  COMMAND 

was  resuming  the  rage  which  had  assailed  him  when  the 
Tanganyika  was  going  down  and  which  had  been  suspended 
while  he  made  good  his  claim  on  life.  The  smug  way  in 
which  this  bearded  stranger  disposed  of  him  was  intolerable. 
Mr.  Spokesly  knew  this  man  would  never  dream  of  sending 
one  of  his  own  caste  to  a  third  mate's  job  on  a  Persian  Gulf 
coaster  with  the  hot  season  coming  on.  He  knew  that  he 
himself,  being  a  merchant  seaman,  was  regarded  by  all  these 
brass-bound  people  as  an  inferior,  a  shell-back,  a  lob-scouser, 
and  no  dire  need  would  ever  make  them  accept  him  as  one  of 
themselves.  And  he  had  a  glimpse,  in  his  rage,  of  another 
truth,  for  one  often  sees  these  things  in  flashes  of  anger.  He 
just  caught  sight  of  the  fact  that  these  people,  with  their 
closely  guarded  privileges  and  esoteric  codes,  were  fighting 
much  more  for  their  class  than  for  England,  that  an  England 
democratized  and  ravished  of  her  class  system  would  be  to 
them  a  worse  place  than  an  England  defeated  by  a  class- 
conscious  enemy.  But  the  immediate  grievance  was  per- 
sonal.    He  stood  up. 

"Volunteer,"  he  repeated.  "Excuse  me.  Mister,  I  came 
home  from  out  east  and  took  a  second  mate's  job,  there  being 
nothing  better  about.  I  went  mate  when  the  other  man  died. 
IVe  had  a  master's  ticket  this  ten  years.  Now  you  want  me 
to  go  third  mate.  Where  shall  I  end  up?  In  the  forecastle.'* 
Volunteer!  I  can  tell  you,  I'm  beginning  to  regret  I  ever  left 
Hong  Kong." 

"I  see.  Of  course  we  can't  help  that,  you  know.  You'd 
better  go  and  see  the  paymaster  commander.  Perhaps  he 
can  put  you  on  a  ship." 

Mr.  Spokesly  took  the  cap,  a  size  too  large  for  him,  which 
he  had  got  on  credit  at  Stein's  Oriental  Store,  and  went  out. 
He  was  feeling  very  bitter.  No  man  feels  he  is  doing  himself 
justice  in  clothes  that  are  too  large  for  him.  Mr.  Spokesly 
wanted  to  go  away  and  hide  until  he  could  get  rid  of  his 
enormous  golf-cap  and  the  coat  which  hung  on  him,  as  he 
himself  put  it,  like  a  bosun's  shirt  on  a  capstan-bar.  He 
went  downstairs  into  the  street.  The  sun  had  forced  its  way 
through  vast  banks  of  blue-black  and  gray-white  clouds  and 


COMMAND  m 

brought  out  unsuspected  tones  in  the  roadway  ankle-deep  in 
bright  yellow  mud,  in  the  green  uniform  of  a  Russian  soldier 
who  was  carrying  a  polished  copper  kettle,  and  in  the  black- 
green  waters  of  the  Gulf  crested  with  silver  plumes.  With- 
out analyzing  the  causes  of  the  change,  Mr.  Spokesly  felt 
more  cheerful.  He  would  go  to  the  paymaster  commander, 
who  was  in  the  Olympos  Palace  Hotel,  and  get  the  price  of 
a  drink  anyway.  He  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and 
whistled.  His  hand  had  closed  over  the  ring.  He  thought 
of  Archy,  the  shiningly  successful  one,  the  paladin  of  pilferers, 
the  financial  genius,  down  among  the  crawfish  and  awaiting 
those  things  he  saw  on  a  stall  just  over  there,  eight-armed 
horrors  with  enormous  bald  heads  and  bulging  eyes  and 
hooked  beaks.  And  as  he  came  to  the  corner  of  the  Place 
de  la  Liberte,  he  encountered  a  gentleman  in  the  uniform  of 
a  lieutenant  of  reserve.  He  was  an  elderly  person,  with  the 
subdued  air  of  those  men  who  have  somehow  attained  to  a 
command  without  ever  making  any  mistakes  or  achieving 
any  remarkable  successes.  His  uniform  was  badly  cut,  his 
trousers  bagged  at  the  knees,  and  a  large  blue  anchor  was 
tattooed  on  his  left  hand.  But  to  Mr.  Spokesly  he  was  an 
angel.  He  was  not  surprised  when  this  person  made  some 
trivial  remark  to  open  the  conversation.  And  it  soon  ap- 
peared that  he,  too,  was  nursing  a  grievance. 

"What?  You  off  the  Tanganyika^  Why,  you  only  went 
out  yesterday.  No,  the  day  before.  Dear,  dear!  And  what 
are  they  going  to  do  with  you?" 

"Want  me  to  go  up  the  Persian  Gulf  third  watch-keeper  of 
a  six-hundred- ton  coaster,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  feeling  the 
ring  in  his  pocket  and  scowling. 

"Ah!    Just  fancy  that." 

"And  I  been  mate  this  six  years,  mind  you." 

"Just  so.  How  about  a  drink?  Floka's,  you  know,  just 
up  here.  I  quite  understand,"  this  elderly  angel  added, 
raising  his  hand.     "This  is  all  on  me,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"But  I  can't  really,  Mister.  Not  from  a  stranger,"  pro- 
tested Mr.  Spokesly. 

"Well,  call  it  a  loan,  then,  until  you  can  see  the  paymaster. 


122  COMMAND 

Here,  take  these  two  notes.  There  now!  You  owe  me  a 
sovereign,  eh?    Here  we  are." 

Mr.  Spokesly  would  have  had  some  trouble  in  admitting  it, 
but  the  fact  remains  that  as  they  sat  down  at  one  of  Floka's 
little  tables  and  his  new  friend  asked  him  if  he  could  do  with 
a  gin  and  bitters,  he  could  scarcely  answer  because  he  was  on 
the  verge  of  tears.  After  the  icy  courtesy  of  the  navy,  for 
the  officers  of  the  sloop  had  not  permitted  him  to  forget  for  a 
moment  that  he  was  only  a  seaman,  this  warm  human  kindli- 
ness was  almost  too  much.  It  really  would  have  been  a  good 
thing  for  him  if  he  had  been  able  to  have  what  is  called  a  good 
cry.  But  he  had  been  brought  up  to  believe  that  such 
emotion  was  foolish,  whereas  it  is  often  the  highest  wisdom. 

"What  is  your  job  here?'*  he  asked  after  the  drinks  had 
arrived. 

"Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I'm  in  a  state  of  suspended 
animation,"  answered  the  other,  who  had  been  a  commander 
in  tramp  steamers  for  some  years.  And  he  began  to  tell  his 
story.  He  had  joined  up  in  the  usual  way,  and  after  knock- 
ing about  in  a  shore  job  in  the  Bristol  Channel,  some  brilliant 
creature  hit  on  the  idea  of  sending  him  out  to  Saloniki  to 
act  as  harbour  master.  They  needed  one,  too,  he  observed  in 
parentheses;  an  experienced  man  to  straighten  things  out. 
Very  good.     He  arrived. 

"And  what  do  I  find  but  I  am  to  take  my  orders  from  a 
sub-lieutenant  R.  N.  who's  about  the  age  of  my  second  boy 
who  was  killed  at  Mons,  a  cocky  young  fellow  who  knows  just 
as  much  about  running  a  harbour  master's  offic^e  as  I  do  about 
painting  pictures!  Well,  I  went  to  the  captain  of  the  Base 
and  I  told  him  as  plain  as  I  could,  I  simply  didn't  see  my  way 
to  do  it.  I  couldn't,  Mister!  I  went  in  to  see  this  young 
lordship  one  day  on  some  business,  and  he  kept  me  waiting 
half  an  hour  while  he  was  telephoning  about  a  girl  he'd  met. 
I  told  the  Captain  of  the  Base  I  really  would  have  to  go  home. 
You  know  the  saying :  Standing  rigging  makes  poor  running 
gear.  And  now,"  he  concluded  with  a  quiet  smile,  "I  be- 
lieve I've  refused  duty  or  something.  I  do  wish  I  could  get 
a  ship  again.     This  waiting  about  is  awful.     But  my  owners 


COMMAND  123 

have  had  so  many  losses,  I  can't  expect  a  command  for  a  long 
time  even  if  I  could  get  out  of  this."  And  he  touched  the 
lace  on  his  sleeve.  "These  navy  people  are  all  right  in  their 
own  line  of  trade,  I  suppose,  but  they  don't  seem  to  under- 
stand our  troubles  at  all.     They  say  the  most  curious  things." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"Why,"  said  the  old  fellow  in  a  whisper,  "we  had  a  lot 
of  ships  in  dock  last  week  or  so,  so  many  that  the  anchors  got 
fouled.  One  ship  would  drop  her  anchor  across  another's 
cable,  you  see.  Well,  one  captain  sent  in  a  report  he  could 
not  get  his  anchors  up  and  in  consequence  he'd  be  delayed 
getting  out.  What  I  wanted  to  do,  what  I  was  going  to  do, 
was  to  move  the  other  ships  and  give  him  room.  If  neces- 
sary, some  of  them  could  go  out  and  round  the  breakwater, 
you  understand.  But  my  young  lordship,  this  sub-lieu- 
tenant, says,  *Can't  he  slip  his  anchors?'  in  that  tone  of  voice 
that  they  use  trying  to  make  you  feel  as  though  you  were  an 
errand  boy.  Just  fancy  that!  'Can't  he  slip  his  anchors?' 
*I  dare  say  he  can  sHp  them  all  right,'  I  said,  *but  wouldn't 
he  find  them  useful  in  Genoa?'  Which  was  where  he  was 
going.  You  read  a  lot  in  the  papers  about  what  wonderful 
chaps  they  are,  but     ...     I  don't  know." 

They  sat  there,  those  two,  getting  themselves  pleasantly 
communicative  on  gin  and  bitters,  swapping  stories  of  the 
incompetence  of  others  and  their  own  obscure  virtues,  until 
Mr.  Spokesly  realized  he  would  have  to  see  the  paymaster 
and  discover  what  was  to  happen  to  him. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  must  go.    I  suppose  I'll  see  you  again." 

"I'm  at  the  Olympos.  I'll  show  you  where  to  go.  You'd 
better  get  a  room  there,  too,  if  you  can.  I  think  I'll  get  along 
now  and  see  what  my  young  lordship  is  up  to.  Slipping  some 
more  anchors,  I  expect.     See  you  later." 

And  he  moved  off,  in  his  slovenly  fitting  uniform  and  large 
broad-toed  shoes.  Mr.  Spokesly  watched  him.  There,  he 
thought,  went  a  man  who'd  had  a  command  for  years.  And 
treated  like  a  dog!  He  would  be  like  that  himself  in  twelve 
or  fifteen  years'  time.  These  official  people  only  thought  of 
themselves.     The  only  thing  to  do  was  to  take  a  leaf  out  of 


124  COMMAND 

their  book  and  look  after  Number  One.     He  went  into  the 
hotel. 

He  came  out  again  in  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  "So 
that's  the  way  we're  treated,"  he  muttered,  walking  away. 
"Anybody  would  think  I'd  committed  a  crime,  not  going 
down  with  everybody  else."  This  was  rather  hard  on  a 
harassed  paymaster  who  could  do  nothing  for  Mr.  Spokesly 
save  advance  him  two  hundred  francs,  as  per  regulations 
regarding  distressed  ships'  officers,  and  promise  him  a  com- 
passionate passage  home  at  some  future  date,  unless  ^Ir. 
Spokesly 's  owners  authorized  something  more  generous. 
With  the  two  hundred  francs  in  his  pocket  he  walked  away 
with  the  general  idea  of  getting  a  suit  of  clothes.  And  then — 
perhaps  it  was  the  backward  glance  he  took  as  he  stood  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  noisy,  dirty  little  Place  de  la  Liberte  and 
saw  the  sunlight  dancing  on  the  green-black  water  and  on  the 
poHshed  brass  funnels  of  the  launches;  perhaps  it  was  the 
glimpse  he  caught  of  the  far  peaks  of  Thessaly  that  gave  him 
an  uplifting  of  the  heart.  His  mood  changed.  He  saw  the 
thing  suddenly  not  as  a  grievance  but  as  an  adventure,  in 
which  he  would  have  to  decide  for  himself.  These  naval 
people  were  only  cogs  in  wheels.  If  they  wanted  him  they 
could  come  for  him.  He  recalled  again  the  important  fact 
that  with  the  loss  of  the  Tanganyika  he  became  exactly  what 
he  had  so  greatly  desired — a  free  agent,  so  long  as  he  did  not 
press  his  claim  for  passage  home.  There  was  nothing  in  his 
way  now  except  this  life-long  habit  of  going  to  somebody  for 
orders.  Men  had  made  great  fortunes,  he  had  heard,  by 
being  cast  adrift  in  a  foreign  port  in  some  such  fashion.  And 
others,  he  reflected  cjmically,  had  come  down  in  the  world  to 
be  weak-kneed  bummers  and  drink-cadgers.  There  it  was 
again.  It  rested  with  the  man  himself.  What  was  it  the 
little  green  books  of  the  London  School  of  Mnemonics  had 
said.^  Mr.  Spokesly  laughed  shortly  as  he  thought  of  them 
lying  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  A  good  place  for  them.  Lot 
of  rubbish,  if  the  truth  were  known.  Fat  lot  of  use  they  were 
now,  for  instance.  That  chap  Dainopoulos  was  worth  a  ton 
of  scientific  flub-dub  about  training  one's  memory.     Why 


COMMAND  125 

not  go  and  see  Dainopoulos  now?  See  if  his  talk  about  a  job 
would  amount  to  anything.  And  Mrs.  Dainopoulos.  And 
Evanthia  Solaris.  He  drew  a  deep  breath  and  looked  out 
across  the  dancing  sea.  A  battalion  began  to  march  along 
the  quay,  drums  and  fifes  thudding  and  squeaking  behind 
them,  a  long  Hue  of  khaki  figures  with  overcoats  curled  in  a 
thick  band  across  their  bodies,  hung  all  over  with  an  extraor- 
dinary assortment  of  utensils.  Going  up  to  the  front,  he 
reflected,  to  be  shot  or  dismembered  or  racked  with  dysentery. 
They  got  the  glory,  too.  They  were  "the  boys  at  the  front," 
and  they  filled  the  public  eye.  They  and  the  navy.  They 
had  pensions  provided  and  so  on.  Mr.  Sp>okesly  was  not  a 
trustworthy  authority  on  the  business  and  emoluments  of 
soldiering.  He  held  always  the  civilian's  point  of  view.  He 
had  been  brought  up  among  a  class  of  people  who  kept  silent 
on  the  subject  if  a  member  of  their  family  enlisted.  Even  the 
war,  which  abolished  the  necessity  for  shame,  did  not  eradi- 
cate the  fundamental  animosity  of  these  middle-class  folk 
towards  the  mihtary.  Mr.  Spokesly  himself  had  an  old  aunt, 
who  hved  on  her  husband's  insurance  money  at  Hendon,  who 
still  alluded  to  "the  red-coats,"  though  scarlet  had  been 
abolished.  It  was,  like  their  terror  of  dear  bread,  in  their 
blood.  They  were  individualists,  these  bourgeois  from 
whom  Mr.  Spokesly  came.  They  were  the  folk  whose  rela- 
tives were  established  in  distant  colonies  where  they  had 
raised  famihes  of  tall  sons  who  had  come  back  into  the  fight 
so  changed  in  character  that  the  people  of  England  did  not 
know  them.  They  were  the  folk  who  "went  out"  to  the 
East  and  into  Africa  as  traders  and  factors,  and  who  carried 
Haverstock  Hill  with  them  up  the  Nile  and  the  Hoang  Ho. 
Unimaginative  and  devoid  of  conscious  art,  they  furnished, 
without  knowing  or  caring  much  about  the  matter,  the  raw 
material  of  romance.  They  did  outrageously  romantic 
things  under  the  pretence  of  providing  for  their  famihes  or 
getting  orders  for  their  firm.  And  it  was  this  generic  in- 
herited character,  working  to  the  surface  during  the  reaction 
from  his  recent  exertions  and  emotional  stress,  that  meant 
more  to  Mr.  Spokesly  than  either  the  war  or  the  London 


126  COMMAND 

School  of  Mnemonics.  The  basis  of  romantic  adventm^ 
is  character,  and  a  man's  real  character  is  sometimes  overlaid 
with  curious  artificial  ornaments.  Mr.  Spokesly  had  been 
very  much  in  error  both  as  to  his  own  character  and  his 
destiny.  He  had  no  more  need  of  memory  training  than 
Mr.  Dainopoulos.  In  the  future  his  care  would  be  to  forget 
rather  than  remember.  His  recent  experiences  had  taught 
him  much.  What  was  to  come  would  teach  him  still  more. 
He  found  Mr.  Dainopoulos  in  his  extremely  diminutive 
office  in  a  cross-street  near  the  Post  Office.  Mr.  Dainopoulos 
was  ostensibly  a  money-changer.  In  front  of  his  premises 
was  a  glass  case  with  an  assortment  of  currency.  A  few 
sovereigns  in  a  saucer  caught  the  eye,  and  might  have  in- 
spired the  casual  passenger  with  polite  wonder  how  they  had 
found  their  way  there  when  honest  men  in  England  had  for- 
gotten how  they  looked.  And  at  the  back  of  his  premises 
Mr.  Dainopoulos  had  a  safe  nearly  as  large  as  the  office. 
Between  these  two  emblems  of  financial  affairs  were  a  table 
and  two  chairs.  On  the  walls  were  musty  insurance  calen- 
dars and  obsolete  steamship  sailing  lists,  for  Mr.  Dainopoulos 
had  done  a  brisk  agency  in  the  past  with  emigrants,  stimu- 
lating the  cupidity  of  Balkan  peasants  with  hvely  handbills 
describing  the  streets  of  New  York  and  Chicago  as  being 
paved  with  gold.  At  the  present  moment,  when  Mr.  Spokesly 
came  in,  the  other  chair  was  occupied  by  a  long  thin  person 
folded  loosely  together  and  smoking  a  cigarette  in  a  holder 
nearly  a  foot  long.  He  had  one  of  those  physiognomies 
that  baffle  analysis  by  the  simple  expedient  of  never  under 
any  circumstances  meeting  one's  eye.  The  pinched  cranium, 
the  cold,  pale  blue  eyes,  the  hooked  nose  coming  down  over  a 
toothless  mouth  to  meet  an  up-turning  pointed  chin,  might 
lead  one  to  think  him  old,  yet  he  was  no  more  than  forty-five 
in  fact.  His  long  sallow  hands  were  hairless  and  garnished 
with  several  seal-rings,  and  on  one  skinny  wrist  hung  a  slave 
bangle.  He  had  his  chair  tipped  back  against  the  wall,  one 
leg  dangling,  the  other  hooked  by  the  heel  into  the  cross-bar, 
while  over  the  raised  sharp  knee-joint  he  had  draped  his  fore- 
arm.    He  was  talking  with  great  animation,  his  jaws  moving 


COMMAND  127 

rapidly  like  the  jaws  of  a  ventriloquist's  dummy,  which  he 
altogether  resembled,  and  his  toothless  gums  gave  out  a  hiss- 
ing lisp.     Mr.  Dainopoulos  jumped  up. 

"My  dear  friend!"  he  exclaimed,  with  that  faint  Latin 
crow  on  the  upper  register  which  is  so  disconcerting  to  the 
northerner.  He  took  in  the  situation  rapidly.  It  was 
unusual  for  him  to  be  ignorant  of  anything  for  long.  He 
very  often  knew  of  disasters  before  the  InteUigence  Depart- 
ment, having  means  that  they  lacked  for  gathering  news  from 
obscure  sources.  He  needed  no  schools  of  mnemonics  to 
teach  him  the  inevitable  deductions  from  Mr.  Spokesly's 
queer  cap  and  baggy  coat,  while  the  long  strips  of  plaster 
made  him  utter  inarticulate  sounds  of  sympathy. 

"Let  me  introduce  you.  This  is  Captain  Rannie.  He's 
skipper  of  my  little  ship  the  Kalkis.  Captain,  I  want  you  to 
know  this  gentleman.    His  ship's  just  been  sunk." 

Even  at  the  moment  when  he  offered  a  limp  hand  Captain 
Rannie  did  not  raise  his  eyes  above  Mr.  Spokesly's  side 
pockets,  and  he  lost  no  time  in  resuming  the  conversation. 
Mr.  Spokesly  found  that  this  was  one  of  Captain  Rannie's 
most  notable  pecuUarities.  He  had  the  air  of  a  silent,  re- 
served man,  and  he  gave  one  a  strong  impression  of  being 
silent  and  reserved  since  he  never  divulged  anything  about 
himself.  Yet  he  was  always  in  the  midst  of  an  interminable 
monologue.  When  you  met  him  he  was  talking  rapidly  in  a 
low,  ill-tempered  lisping  voice,  he  continued  whether  you  had 
business  with  him  or  not,  and  he  was  still  at  it  when  you  bade 
him  good  day.  He  talked  extremely  well,  with  a  sort  of 
heavy  varnish  of  culture  instead  of  fine  polish,  and  he  took 
occasional  deep  breaths  in  order  to  sound  his  periods  cor- 
rectly. The  subjects  of  his  discourse  were  two:  his  own 
virtues  and  the  sins  of  everybody  else  on  earth.  Perhaps 
this  was  why  he  was  never  finished,  since  both  subjects  were 
inexhaustible.  No  one  had  ever  given  him  a  fair  deal  and  he 
had  given  up  expecting  it.  There  were  many  things  about 
himself  to  which  he  never  alluded,  but  he  gave  the  impression 
that  in  strict  justice  he  ought  to  allude  to  them  and  very 
unfavourably,  since  he  had  been  so  badly  treated  by  the 


128  COMMAND 

other  parties.  He  was  never  heard  to  mention  the  war,  for 
example,  or  his  own  participation  in  the  fray.  He  talked, 
indeed,  as  a  very  garrulous  being  from  another  planet  might, 
after  a  few  intensive  lessons  on  human  frailty.  At  the  present 
moment  he  was  giving  it  as  his  fixed  opinion,  and  supporting 
it  with  an  overwhelming  mass  of  fresh  evidence,  that  every- 
body— the  agent  in  Port  Said,  the  crew  including  the  mate 
and  the  engineer,  the  warship  who  had  peremptorily  demanded 
his  name  and  port  of  origin,  and  the  captain  of  the  port  who 
had  assigned  him  a  bad  berth  nearly  three  miles  from  the  dock 
— ^was  in  a  conspiracy  to  make  his  life  a  hell  on  earth.  After 
he  had  shaken  hands  with  Mr.  Spokesly  his  arm  dropped 
slackly  across  his  knee  once  more,  leaving  the  cigarette- 
stained  fingers  to  make  expressive  motions  emphasizing  the 
ghastliness  of  the  tale  he  unfolded.  And  never  once  did  he 
raise  his  eyes  to  either  of  his  auditors.  It  almost  seemed  as 
though  he  could  not  bear  to  look  in  the  faces  of  those  beings 
from  whom  it  was  impossible  to  obtain  justice. 

"I  ask  you,  what  is  a  man  to  do.^^  What  can  he  do,  as 
commander  of  the  vessel,  when  his  own  officers  decline, 
absolutely  pointblank  decline,  to  give  him  ordinary  decent 
respect.'^  Let  alone  carrying  out  explicit  orders.  It*s  enough 
to  make  a  man  throw  up  the  whole  thing  in  disgust.  If  I've 
told  my  chief  officer  once  I've  told  him  fifty  times,  I  will  not 
have  a  cuspidor  on  the  bridge  for  the  man  at  the  wheel. 
My  helmsman  must  have  the  common  decency  to  refrain 
from  spitting  while  on  duty.  What  is  the  result?  He 
laughs  in  my  face.  Simply  takes  not  the  slightest  notice. 
The  same  with  everything  else.  Do  I  give  orders  to  have  the 
captain's  tea  served  at  four  sharp?  What  does  he  do  but 
stops  the  steward  on  his  way  down,  drinks  the  tea,  spits  in  the 
cup,  and  tells  the  man  to  take  it  to  the  captain.  And  when  I 
ordered  him  to  his  room  he  threatened  me.  Actually 
threatened  the  commander  of  the  ship.  I  of  course  logged 
him  for  insolent,  unbearable,  and  insubordinate  behaviour, 
and  when  I  read  the  entry  to  him  according  to  regulations, 
he  tore  the  book  to  pieces  and  not  only  threw  them  at  me  but 
offered    me    bodily    violence.     I    was    attacked!    And   the 


COMMAND  129 

engineer  is,  if  anything,  worse.  Stood  looking  in  the  port 
and  laughed  at  the  chief  officer's  ruffianly  behaviour.  Do 
you  suppose  for  a  single  moment  I  can  tolerate  this  sort  of 
thing?" 

"Well,  well.  Captain,  I  tell  you  what  .  .  ."  began 
Mr.  Dainopoulos. 

"And  another  thing,"  continued  Captain  Rannie,  without 
looking  up,  "the  man's  no  good  in  a  pinch.  Several  times  on 
the  voyage  I've  had  literally  to  tell  him  his  work.  No  sense 
of  his  position.  Sits  on  the  fore  hatch  and  has  long  conver- 
sations with  the  crew.  I  make  no  charges,  mind,  none  what- 
ever, but  I  am  as  certain  that  man  carries  my  conversation 
forward  as  I  am  of  my  own  existence.  When  eight  bells  ring 
at  my  orders,  he  is  frequently  nowhere  to  be  seen,  and  if  I 
send  the  man  at  the  wheel  to  find  him  and  bring  him  up,  as  I 
have  had  to  do  more  than  once,  he  keeps  the  man  with  him  in 
his  room  playing  cards,  leaving  me  at  the  wheel.  That's 
gratitude.  That's  the  sort  of  thing  I  have  to  put  up  with 
from  this  man.  Do  you  suppose  for  a  moment  that  I  can 
allow  it  to  go  on  for  ever.?" 

"Well,  Captain,"  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos  again,  "I  can  see 
we  shall  have  to     .     .     ." 

"In  Port  Said,"  cut  in  Captain  Rannie,  "I  scarcely  saw  the 
man.  Positively  I  might  have  had  no  chief  officer !  But  for 
me  the  ship  would  have  been  looted  over  and  over  again. 
More  than  once,  when  I  was  going  ashore  on  ship's  business, 
I  found  he  had  sent  the  boat  away  on  some  perfectly  trivial 
errand  of  his  own,  to  buy  him  some  cigarettes  or  to  fetch  his 
laundry.  And  when  I  made  an  absolutely  justifiable  protest 
and  issued  explicit  orders  that  the  boat  was  not  to  leave  the 
ship's  side  except  at  the  express  orders  of  the  commander, 
what  happens.'^  Nothing  but  insults  and  foul  innuendoes. 
This  sort  of  treatment  might  appeal  to  some  ship  masters. 
You  can't  tell,  there's  no  accounting  for  tastes.  Personally, 
I  simply  will  not  have  it.  I  have  been  patient  long  enough. 
I  make  every  allowance  for  defective  education  and  ignorance 
of  the  ordinary  decencies  of  life.  I  hope  I  realize  everybody 
cannot  be  the  same.     But  this  is  going  too  far." 


130  COMMAND 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos  hurriedly.  *'I  quite 
agree  with  you,  Captain.  We'll  make  a  change  right  away. 
Now  if  you'll     .     .     ." 

"Putting  aside  all  personal  feeling,"  continued  Captain 
Rannie,  and  indeed  he  had  gone  right  on  while  his  employer 
was  speaking,  "putting  all  that  to  one  side,  I  feel  it  my  duty 
as  master  of  the  vessel.  The  man  is  not  fit  to  be  a  ship's 
officer." 

"I'll  get  you  a  seat.  Mister,"  said  Dainopoulos  to  Mr. 
Spokesly,  and  he  hurried  out  and  over  to  a  small  cafe,  return- 
ing with  a  chair. 

"No  satisfaction  in  going  on  like  this,  as  any  one  can  see 
,not  blinded  by  prejudice.  No  one  would  believe,  no  one, 
Iwhat  I  have  to  put  up  with.  Not  a  soul  on  the  ship  who 
shows  the  faintest  glimmer  of  gratitude."  And  Captain 
Rannie  was  suddenly  silent. 

"That's  what  we'll  do,"  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos  in  a  loud, 
sympathetic  voice,  "and  I'll  see  if  I  can't  get  you  a  better 
anchorage.  This  afternoon  I  expect  I'll  have  a  hghter  for 
you.     How  will  that  do.  Captain?" 

"I  expect  nothing,  and  I'll  not  be  disappointed,"  replied 
the  captain.  "My  experience  leads  me  to  expect  things 
when  I  get  them.  If  anything  has  happened  on  board  since 
I  left,  don't  blame  me.  I  give  you  full  warning.  The  man 
is  not  to  be  trusted.  I  have  difficulty  in  keeping  my  hands 
off  him.  I  only  refrain  as  a  matter  of  dignity.  I  would  not 
soil  my  hands  with  such — such  riff-raff.  I  hope  I  am  not 
misunderstood.  There's  a  limit  to  human  endurance,  that's 
all." 

"I  know  how  it  is.  Captain.  Don't  you  worry.  Only, 
you  know  as  well  as  I  do  he  was  the  only  man  I  could  get  at 
the  time." 

"I  make  no  charges,"  said  Captain  Rannie,  suddenly  rising 
to  some  six  feet  two,  to  Mr.  Spokesly's  intense  astonishment. 
"I  hope  I  am  above  that  sort  of  thing.  But,  I  must  really 
say,  things  could  be  managed  better  if  more  attention  was 
paid  to  the  express  wishes  of  the  master  of  the  vessel."  And 
without  looking  up  or  indicating  in  any  way  that  he  was 


COMMAND  131 

conscious  of  their  presence,  Captain  Rannie  walked  away 
and  disapi>eared  into  the  Place  de  la  Liberte. 

Mr.  Dainopoulos  looked  after  him  for  a  moment  with  an 
expression  of  perplexity  on  his  marred  featm-es  and  then  sat 
down. 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?"  inquired  Mr.  Spokesly, 
very  much  interested.     "Is  he  touched  at  aU.?" 

"No,  he's  aU  right.  Only  he  grumble  grumble  too  much," 
said  Mr.  Dainopoulos  scratching  his  chin  philosophically. 

"I  should  think  he  does  if  he's  always  like  that.  What  is 
his  job  worth?" 

"  Seven  hundred  drachma  a  month  I  pay  him,  and  he  says 
it's  not  enough." 

"That  so?  Hm!"  Mr.  Spokesly  was  thinking.  "That's 
about  thirty  pound  a  month.  And  I  suppose  he  finds  the 
ship."    Mr.  Dainopoulos  nodded. 

"Fifteen  hundred  drachma  a  month  for  that,  and  he  says 
he  lose  money  on  the  job." 

Mr.  Spokesly  was  looking  down  at  the  floor,  flicking  the  ash 
from  a  cigarette,  and  he  did  not  see  the  sudden  wide-open 
stare  Dainof)Oulos  fixed  upon  him,  as  though  beholding  him  in 
a  new  aspect. 

"Why,  think  of  it.  Here  you  are,  without  a  ship!"  he 
exclaimed. 

"No  doubt  about  that,"  muttered  Mr.  Spokesly. 

"Well,  why  not  make  a  trip  for  me?  This  ship  she's  not 
very  beeg,  but  she's  going  down  to  the  Islands  for  the  Govern- 
ment, you  understand." 

"For  the  Government?    A  transport?" 

"One  trip.  After  that  I'll  have  something  else  much 
better  for  you.     Yes,  much  better." 

"What,  go  mate  with  this  Captain  Rannie?" 

"One  trip,"  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  holding  up  his  fore- 
finger.    "I  can  fix  you  for  four  hundred  drachma  a  month." 

"You  said  something,  first  time  I  came  ashore,  about  a 
skipper's  job,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly. 

"That's  just  what  I  mean.  Something  better,  see?  This 
skipper,"  he  added,  leaning  forward  and  lowering  his  voice. 


132  COMMAND 

"he  no  good!  But  he  got  a  paper  from  me,  you  understand, 
for  a  year,  so  I  can't  do  nothin'." 

"What  about  me?"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  rather  to  his  own 
surprise.    "Do  I  get  a  paper,  too?" 

"Only  one  trip,'"  countered  Mr.  Dainopoulos.  "You  go 
one  trip  and  I'll  fix  you  for  a  heeg  ship." 

"Well,  I  can't  do  any  better,  and  going  home  may  be  a 
wash-out,"  mused  Mr.  Spokesly.     "I'll  get  some  clothes." 

"You  go  to  a  friend  o'  mine  and  he'll  get  you  everything. 
Here's  the  number.  Jean  Tjimiski  Street.  You  better  get 
uniform,  see,  and  wear  all  the  time.  Better  than  plain 
clothes.  Plenty  trouble  goin'  aboard  ship  without  uniform. 
And  then  you  come  to  my  house." 

"I  was  going  to  the  Olympos,"  began  Mr.  Spokesly. 

"Too  dear!  Olympos  no  good,"  hastily  began  Mr. 
Dainopoulos  who  was  not  at  all  anxious  to  have  an  employee 
of  his  drawn  into  conversation  by  the  people  who  lived  at  the 
Olympos.  "You  come  to  my  house.  I  will  speak  to  the 
oflficer  who  buy  the  stores  from  me  and  he  will  be  glad  if 
captain  and  mate  both  English,  you  understand.  That  all 
right?"     And  he  patted  Mr.  Spokesly  on  the  shoulder. 

"You  mean,  come  and  stay  with  you?" 

"Certainly.  Why  not?  My  wife,  she  likes  you  very 
much.     And  Miss  Solaris,  eh?" 

"Well,  I  don't  notice  she  likes  me  so  very  much.  She 
tolerates  me.     I  don't  understand  that  girl,  Mister." 

Mr.  Dainopoulos  looked  very  serious  at  this.  He  shook  his 
head.  He  ht  a  cigarette,  blew  the  smoke  away,  and  put  his 
face  close  to  Mr.  Spokesly's. 

"Never  mind  her.  Mister.  Keep  away  from  her.  She's  a 
fine  girl  but  she's  got  funny  ideas.  And  she's  crazy  about 
that  feller  what's  gone  away.  She  thinks  he's  a  king  and 
she's  a  queen.  You  understand  what  I  mean?  She  ain't 
here  at  all,  you  see?  She's  got  notions  she's  goin'  to  find 
him  and  he'll  take  her  back  to  Austria  or  somewhere.  I 
can't  tell  you  all  about  it.  I  laugh  when  she  tells  us  all  her 
fool  notions.  She  thinks  you  can  get  her  on  your  ship  and 
take  her  back  to  her     .     .     .    yes!"    Mr.  Dainopoulos  was 


COMMAND  133 

humorously  hideous  as  he  reiterated  this  astounding  notion 
on  the  part  of  Evanthia  Solaris.  "And  when  I  says  to  her, 
*Aw,  he's  gone  away  now;  won't  be  back  for  six  months, 
maybe,'  she  call  me  a  liar.  *He'll  come  back,'  she  say  to  me. 
'I  want  him!     Ha,  ha!'" 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  looking  meditatively  at  the 
immense  safe.  "She's  right  after  all,  and  you're  wrong. 
I'm  here,  ain't  I?" 

"And  that's  why  I  tell  you,  look  out.  These  women,  they 
ain't  like  Englishwomen,  Mister." 

"How.?" 

But  Mr.  Dainopoulos  couldn't  explain  how.  It  is  not  easy 
to  explain  how.  Perhaps,  if  Mr.  Dainopoulos  had  been  less 
absorbed  in  making  money  and  had  dabbled  in  the  fine  arts, 
he  might  have  hit  upon  some  adequate  comparison.  He 
might  have  said,  for  example,  that  the  difference  was  like  the 
difference  between  the  rose,  with  its  perfume  and  its  compre- 
hensible thorns,  and  the  poppy,  or  the  hemlock  or  the  deadly 
nightshade,  blooms  of  fatal  lure  and  incalculable  perils.  Mr. 
Dainopoulos  knew  the  difference  but  he  did  not  know  the 
English  for  it.  He  must  have  sensed  in  some  way  the  latent 
danger  for  a  man  like  Mr.  Spokesly,  a  man  with  much  un- 
conscious romanticism  in  his  nature,  for  he  shook  his  head 
vigorously  and  said  several  times,  "You  look  out.  She'll 
fix  you  to  do  something  crazy.  You're  engaged,  or  I'd  say, 
keep  away  from  her.  But  since  you're  engaged,  well,  look 
out,  that's  all.  By  and  by  she'll  forget  all  her  fool  notions 
and  get  married." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly.  "I  got  to  get  out  of  these 
clothes  before  I  see  anybody.  I'll  take  a  walk  up  to  see  your 
friend  the  tailor.  See  you  later."  And  he  walked  towards 
Venizelos  Street. 

He  was  profoundly  disturbed  at  this  unexpected  revelation 
of  the  attitude  of  Evanthia  Solaris.  If  that  girl  had  designed 
to  cast  a  spell  upon  him,  she  could  have  chosen  no  more 
potent  elixir  than  this  sublimated  essence  of  quixotism. 
She  wanted  him  to  get  her  back  to  the  gay  and  impudent 
young  person  who  had  almost  tweaked  the  noses  and  pulled 


134  COMMAND 

the  beards  of  the  serious  French  officers  who  had  seen  him 
safely  locked  in  the  train  bound  north  through  the  lines. 
Without  being  competent  to  analyze  his  complex  emotions, 
Mr.  Spokesly  was  in  no  doubt  of  their  reahty.  He  would  do 
it.  It  appealed  to  his  particularly  English  ideal  of  chivalry, 
which  is  embodied  in  the  immortal  phrase  "making  a  woman 
happy."  He  would  do  it.  He  would  astonish  her  by  his 
sudden  solicitude  for  her  happiness.  And  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted that,  whatever  else  he  failed  to  do,  Mr.  Spokesly  suc- 
ceeded in  astonishing  her.  Evanthia  Solaris  was  perfectly 
equipped  to  achieve  her  own  happiness,  equipped  with  the 
weapons  and  instincts  of  the  jungle;  and  the  spectacle  of  an 
Englishman  at  his  ancient  and  honourable  pastime  of  making 
a  woman  happy,  while  it  never  caused  her  to  relax  her  vigi- 
lance, certainly  inspired  her  with  novel  emotions. 

Mr.  Spokesly  was  so  lost  in  his  reflections,  most  of  them 
confusingly  agreeable,  that  he  started  when  a  famihar  mellow 
voice  asked  him  where  he  was  going.  His  friend  the  Lieu- 
tenant of  Reserve  was  standing  at  the  corner  of  the  Place. 
It  was  evident  that  the  billet  of  deputy-assistant  harbour 
master  carried  no  crushingly  onerous  duties.  The  old  lieu- 
tenant looked  as  though  he  had  had  a  number  of  little  drinks 
since  Mr.  Spokesly  had  left  him.  He  stood  leaning  on  a  cane 
looking  on  benevolently  at  the  busy  scene. 

"Floka's  is  right  here,'*  he  said.  "S'pose  we  have  a 
couple.^  Beautiful  morning,  isn't  it?  Well,  and  how  did  you 
get  on?" 

Mr.  Spokesly  had  time  to  think.  He  recalled  his  own 
motto  of  keeping  one's  eyes  open  and  one's  mouth  shut.  His 
angle  of  vision  had  changed  since  the  morning  hour.  He  no 
longer  felt  sore  with  the  navy  or  miserably  alone  in  the  world. 
He  had  got  a  promise  of  a  command — a  promise  he  had  never 
before  approached  in  his  life.  And  a  woman  had  said  she 
wanted  him.  He  regarded  his  elderly  companion  with  com- 
posure as  they  stepped  over  and  sat  down  at  a  Kttle 
table. 

"Not  so  bad,"  he  said,  drawing  out  his  two  hundred  francs 
and  handing  over  twenty-five.     "Much  obUged.     No,  can't 


COMMAND  155 

say  when  I'm  goin*  home.     Paymaster  said  he'd  let  me  know. 
How's  things.?     Any  more  anchors  to  sHp.?  " 

The  answer  was  a  fat  chuckle. 

"Oh,  my  young  lordship's  not  there  this  morning,"  said  the 
lieutenant.  "Playing  golf!"  He  drank  his  gin  and  bitters 
thirstily,  which  is  a  bad  sign.  "Golf!  I'd  golf  him,  if  I  had 
my  way.  Lucky  there's  nothing  much  doing  just  now.  As 
it  is  I've  had  a  heavy  morning,  getting  things  straightened 
out.  I  think  I'll  have  another  and  then  we  might  try  a  bit  o' 
lunch.  So  you'll  be  on  your  own  for  a  few  days.  I  wish  I 
could  get  home.  I'm  going  to  see  the  Captain  of  the  Base 
to-morrow.     If  that's  no  good,  I'll  write  to  the  Admiralty." 

They  had  another  and  the  lieutenant  gave  an  outline  of  the 
letter  he  proposed  to  write  to  the  Admiralty.  He  also  gave 
Mr.  Spokesly  his  views  of  the  naval  situation,  attributing  the 
nation's  reverses  entirely  to  mismanagement  of  the  harbours. 
They  were  not  very  clear  views,  and  their  value  was  vitiated 
by  a  peculiarly  irrelevant  argument  that  consular  agents 
ought  to  be  recruited  from  the  ranks  of  retired  shipmasters. 

"  'Tired  shipmasters,"  he  repeated,  with  unconscious  irony, 
after  the  tenth  drink  that  morning.  "Practical  men.  Size 
up  situation.  But  what's  the  use?  Gov'ment  won't  lissen 
t'reason."  He  put  down  his  glass  and  paid  the  reckoning. 
Although  he  was  not  conscious  of  it,  the  lieutenant  was  a 
happy  man.  He  owned  his  own  semi-detached  villa  over 
at  Chingford,  near  London,  and  the  villa  adjoining.  His 
children  were  all  grown  up.  Years  ago  he  had  put  his 
money  into  shipping  and  it  had  failed  to  pay  a  divi- 
dend of  more  than  three  per  cent.  Now  he  was  getting 
nearly  thirty  per  cent.  His  health  was  good,  for  even  the 
interminable  little  drinks  at  Floka's  had  no  great  eflFect  upon 
him.  He  was  doing  very  well  out  of  the  war.  A  life  of  care- 
ful and  cautious  command  was  being  crowned  by  a  season  of 
gentle  conviviality.  He  had  achieved  a  p>osition  of  respect- 
able eminence  without  ever  having  had  an  idea  in  his  head. 
For  him  neither  the  arts,  the  sciences,  nor  philosophy  existed. 
His  patriotism  was  a  rootless  organism  floating  in  a  calm  sea 
of  sentiment.    An  intermittent  melancholy  assailed  him  at 


136  COMMAND 

the  times  when  he  thought  of  his  son  killed  at  Mons.  A  wild 
young  fellow.  Got  into  a  very  expensive  set  in  that  insur- 
ance office,  where  he  worked.  Brought  up  to  be  a  gentleman, 
so  one  couldn't  very  well  grumble.  Upset  his  mother  some- 
thing terrible.  And  now  he  was  gone  and  would  never  be 
any  expense  to  anybody  again.  And  his  old  father  was  left 
to  jog  along  as  best  he  could.  Ah,  well !  His  other  boy,  now, 
in  an  aircraft  factory,  was  doing  well.  Wonderful  how  he'd 
taken  to  these  here  motors.  Probably  get  a  very  good  billet 
after  the  war  was  over.  Saving  money,  too.  Ah,  well!  It 
was  an  ill  wind  that  blew  nobody  any  good.  He  tried  to  fix 
his  attention,  which  had  wandered  a  little,  on  what  Mr, 
Spokesly  was  saying.  That  gentleman  was  preoccupied 
with  his  own  immediate  future  and  was  trying  to  get  away 
without  hurting  any  feelings.  Keeping  his  eyes  open  and  his 
mouth  shut  involved  dropping  all  unnecessary  "top-hamper" 
as  he  himself  phrased  it.     He  rose. 

"I  got  to  go  and  get  some  clothes,"  he  explained.  "I 
simply  can't  go  round  like  this,  you  know.  Suppose  I  look 
in  at  the  hotel  this  evening,  eh?" 

"Do!"  said  the  lieutenant  with  dreamy  cordiality. 
"Very  thing.  Tell  the  waiter,  will  you?  I  think  I'll  have 
another  before  I  go  round  to  lunch." 

It  was  just  about  this  time  that  a  keen-faced  naval  man, 
engaged  in  mending  the  shaft  of  a  groggy  driver  with  some 
plasticine  and  a  strip  of  insulating  tape,  made  a  remark  to  a 
young  sub-lieutenant  with  features  of  almost  girlish  delicacy, 
who  was  assisting. 

"One  of  your  people,"  he  said  crisply,  "is  continually 
pestering  me.  Middle-aged.  Lieutenant  Reserve.  Smells 
abominably  of  cough-drops.  Wants  to  go  home.  Is  he  any 
use?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  the  young  sub-lieutenant  with 
equal  crispness.  "He  might  be  if  he  didn't  get  half -stewed 
every  day.     The  cough-drops  are  to  conceal     .     .     ." 

"Oh,  obviously!"  said  the  Captain  of  the  Base.  "I  knew 
that,  thank  you.  But  look  here.  Just  give  him  a  hint,  will 
you,  that  there's  too  much  to  do  just  now  in  my  office  to 


COMMAND  137 

have  him  coming  in  two  or  three  times  a  week  with  a  long 
yarn." 

"What  shall  I  do  with  him?"  asked  the  sub-lieutenant 
deferentially. 

The  captain  took  a  stance  and  swung  the  club. 

"Don't  care  what  you  do  with  him,"  he  said,  taking  a  deep 
breath.  "Lock  him  up,  send  him  out  in  a  transport,  make 
him  run  round  and  round  the  White  Tower,  so  long  as  he 
doesn't  come  to  my  office." 

"Right-o,  sir.  He  shall  run  round  and  round  the  White 
Tower  for  the  duration  of  the  war.  He'll  do  less  harm  there 
than  anywhere  else." 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHEN  Mr.  Spokesly  had  left  his  friend  to  have  one 
more,  he  experienced  that  comfortable  feeling  of 
having  left  someone  behind  which  is  one  of  the  most 
tangible  and  gratifying  results  of  getting  on  both  in  the 
world  and  in  life.  The  incident  crystallized  for  him,  so  to 
speak,  the  gaseous  and  indefinable  emotions  which  had  been 
passing  through  his  mind  since  he  had  been  fished  out  of  the 
water.  Avoiding  the  callous  brutality  of  the  expressed  senti- 
ment, he  derived  a  silent  and  subtle  satisfaction  from  the 
workings  of  a  fate  which  had  singled  him  out  to  survive  a 
ship's  company  of  men  as  deserving  as  he,  but  who  were  now 
none  the  less  out  of  the  running.  Mr.  McGinnis,  who  had 
obligingly  died  a  startling  but  convenient  death,  had  merely 
gone  before.  He  would  be  waiting,  no  doubt,  on  the  Dark 
Shore,  his  pink  jaws  going  continually,  ready  to  navigate 
them  to  their  long  home.  Mr.  Spokesly  had  not  had  a  great 
deal  to  do  with  death  heretofore,  and  he  was  much  struck 
with  the  extreme  ease  with  which  one  can  grow  accustomed 
to  the  horror  of  an  elderly  shipmaster  being  ordered  about 
"like  a  dog,"  as  the  saying  is.  In  a  way,  he  could  scarcely 
refrain  from  regarding  his  friend  the  lieutenant  in  the  same 
light  as  his  late  shipmates.  He  was  clear  enough  on  this 
point  now :  that  the  way  to  success  is  not  through  a  nursing- 
home  for  grievances.  No  one  who  had  met  Captain  Rannie, 
for  example,  could  regard  a  grievance  as  a  worthy  or  valuable 
possession.  And  Mr.  Spokesly,  to  whom  had  been  denied 
access  to  the  great  founts  of  wisdom,  had  to  progress  by  not- 
ing his  fellowmen  and  their  reactions  upon  his  own  feelings. 
He  hastened  away  up  Venizelos  Street,  full  of  vigour  and 
hope,  as  though  it  lay  upon  him  to  achieve  something  of  the 

138 


COMMAND  139 

work  foregone  by  those  so  suddenly  finished  with  Hfe,  who 
were  now  moving  about,  a  bewildered  and  somewhat  un- 
disciplined little  band  of  incongruous  shades,  lost  and  for- 
gotten as  the  colossal  armies  of  the  slain  went  past.  And  he 
became  aware,  quite  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the  bright 
noisy  street,  of  life  being  an  instinctive,  momentary,  im- 
personal affair  after  all.  As  he  put  it,  like  a  lot  of  insects, 
and  somebody  steps  on  us,  and  we're  squashed,  and  all  the 
others  go  swarming  on  over  us.  And  with  that  mysteriously 
heartening  notion,  Mr.  Spokesly  had  a  vividly  imagined 
glimpse  of  those  same  armies  marching  through  the  shadows, 
millions  of  them,  of  all  nations,  silently  moving  towards 
an  eternity  of  passionless  intelligence.  It  would  make  no 
difference  then,  he  thought.  All  we  got  to  do,  is  make 
the  best  bargain  we  can  for  ourselves.  Carry  on!  Like  in- 
sects.    .     .     . 

They  looked  like  that.  They  swarmed  in  the  narrow 
street,  almost  crawling  over  one  another  with  brilliant  and 
distinctive  markings  and  in  their  hard  dark  eyes  an  expression 
of  maniacal  acquisitiveness.  Their  glances  were  almost  like 
antennae,  waving  to  and  fro  in  the  bright,  stench-laden  air, 
communicating  to  the  alert  and  secular  intelUgences  within 
the  warning  of  an  approaching  danger  or  victim.  Like  in- 
sects, too,  they  hived  in  dark  holes,  which  they  called  shops, 
in  the  backs  of  which  one  could  see  their  eyes  glittering,  lying 
in  wait.  And  down  the  steep  street  came  other  insects, 
warrior  ants  astride  of  horses  caparisoned  in  blue  and  silver, 
and  green  and  gold,  with  shining  metallic  wing-cases  and 
fierce  head  ornaments.  They,  too,  moved  on  with  the  air  of 
automata,  without  emotions  or  any  consciousness  of  good  or 
evil.  They  came  on  down,  as  they  had  come  along  that 
ancient  Via  Egnatia,  beneath  the  great  arch  twenty  centuries 
ago,  just  as  hard-eyed  janizaries  had  come  in  later  times, 
settling  in  their  swarms  upon  the  city.  Down  the  steep 
ancient  street  they  came,  settling  heavily  into  their  saddles 
with  a  clash  of  metal  and  wheeze  of  leather  as  their  horses 
took  the  descent;  and  watching  them  with  shining  eyes  from 
a  doorway  was  Evanthia  Solaris,  an  exquisite  apparition  in 


140  COMMAND 

pale  saffron  with  an  enormous  black  hat.  She  was  raised  a 
step  or  two  above  the  sidewalk,  and  Mr.  Spokesly  could  see 
that  slender  gracile  figure  from  the  buff-coloured  shoes  and 
stockings  of  sheer  yellow  silk  to  the  broad  brim  of  black 
straw  shading  the  pale  dark  face  aglow  with  excitement. 
One  would  have  imagined  that  she  was  watching  the  soldiers 
of  her  country  riding  out  to  defend  her,  or  riding  in  to  rescue 
her.  She  leaned  forward  a  little,  her  lips  parted  in  a  smile, 
and  an  officer,  noticing  her  in  her  doorway,  sat  straighter, 
raised  his  sword  and  smiled  in  reply.  Her  response  was 
ravishing.  She  blew  a  kiss,  and  Mr.  Spokesly  marvelled  at 
her  enthusiasm.  As  well  he  might,  for  Evanthia  was  rehears- 
ing a  part.  Patriotism  to  her  was  a  fine  brave  gesture  and 
she  was  practising  it.  It  appealed  to  her  dramatic  instinct. 
Just  as  she  would  suddenly  smother  Mrs.  Dainopoulos  with 
impulsive  caresses,  so  she  cheered  a  lot  of  stolid  soldiers  who 
were  nothing  to  her  and  in  whose  sentiments  she  had  no  share. 
Always  Evanthia  was  certain  of  some  sphere  in  the  world 
where  people  act  like  this,  and  where  they  luxuriate  in  rare  and 
beautiful  emotions.  She  played  at  this  as  a  western  child 
plays  hostess  to  her  dolls.  To  her,  for  a  brief  blinding  mo- 
ment, it  was  real,  and  she  loved  the  officer  with  the  saluting 
sword.  And  Mr.  Spokesly,  rather  scared,  if  the  truth  be  told, 
and  acutely  conscious  of  his  anomalous  attire,  slipped  into  a 
shop  and  dickered  with  a  long-nosed  Jew  for  a  pair  of  Turkish 
slippers,  while  over  his  shoulder  he  saw  the  girl,  now  the 
soldiers  were  gone,  step  daintily  into  the  road  and  go  on  down, 
with  her  delicate  prinking  walk,  an  exquisite  moth  among 
hard-eyed  ferocious-looking  insects. 

And  so  he  found  himself  at  last  in  a  small  room,  behind  a 
w^indow  full  of  formidable  uniforms,  containing  a  dreamy- 
eyed  Greek  tailor  and  an  overworked  American  sewing 
machine.  A  number  of  suits  hung  in  rows  on  one  side  and  on 
the  wall  was  a  steel  engraving  showing  Parisian  Men's 
Fashions  of  a  dozen  years  before.  As  he  owed  for  a  consign- 
ment of  velvet  khaki  which  Mr.  Dainopoulos  had  picked  up 
somewhere  and  sold  him  at  a  noble  profit,  Mr.  Theotokis  was 
disjKJsed  to  do  his  best  for  Mr.  Spokesly.     So  he  took  his 


COMMAND  141 

measure  and  ascertained  by  painful  cross-examination  what 
a  chief  officer's  uniform  was  Uke.  Yes,  Uke  that,  with  one, 
two,  three  rows  of  lace,  one  quarter  wide.  H*m!  And  in 
answer  to  the  demand  for  a  suit  ready  to  wear,  he  sized  Mr. 
Spokesly  up  and  nodded  reflectively.  He  had  something. 
He  rummaged  behind  the  festoons  of  coats  and  drew  out  a 
fine  pin-check  suit  such  as  sporting  characters  affect  in  the 
country.  He  held  it  up  and  regarded  it  with  misgiving.  It 
appeared  from  the  book  to  be  made  to  the  order  of  one 
Jack  Harrowby,  Transport  Tanganyika.  Mr.  Spokesly 
started.  Harrowby  was  one  of  the  wireless  operators,  a 
youth  about  his  own  build  and  distinctly  sporting  in  tempera- 
ment. He  remembered  Harrowby,  all  right.  Why  had  he 
not  fetched  his  suit?  Mr.  Theotokis  shrugged  his  shoulders 
almost  to  his  ears  and  spread  his  hands.  No  money.  Wanted 
to  pay  next  trip.  Another  phenomenal  shrug.  Mr.  Theo- 
tokis was  desolated  to  disappoint  Jack  Harrowby,  but  no 
money,  no  suit.  Mr.  Spokesly  recalled  something  Archy 
Bates  had  said  about  Harrowby  drawing  a  lot  of  money, 
having  started  a  tremendous  love  affair  in  town.  Evidently 
he  was  going  to  cut  a  dash  in  his  pin-checks.  Perhaps  he 
looked  forward  to  the  races  at  Alexandria.  And  now  .  .  . 
Mr.  Spokesly  pursed  his  lips  firmly,  took  off  the  anomalous 
coat  he  was  wearing,  and  slipped  his  arms  into  Jack  Harrow- 
by's  coat.  It  was  an  extremely  good  fit.  Jack  Harrowby's 
trousers  needed  turning  up  and  a  touch  of  the  iron,  and  they 
would  do.  A  tremendous  love  affair  he  had  had  on,  Mr. 
Spokesly  recalled.  Girl  in  a  post-card  shop,  it  was  said. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  suit  which  had  been  ordered  by  Jack 
Harrowby  to  make  love  in.  Mr.  Spokesly  had  not  been  at- 
tracted by  that  short  buxom  little  creature  in  the  post-card 
shop;  but  now  he  felt  he  would  like  the  sensation  of  going 
round  to  see  her,  in  Jack  Harrowby 's  suit.  It  was  the  sort  of 
thing  that  chimed  in  with  his  mood  of  modest  satisfaction. 
It  would  not  be  doing  Jack  Harrowby  any  harm.  That  wise 
youth,  who  had  gone  ahead  and  made  the  most  of  his  oppor- 
tunities, was  now  done  with  pin-check  suits  and  girls  in  post- 
card shops. 


142  COMMAND 

A  hundred  francs  at  first,  it  came  down  to  eighty  on  in- 
voking the  name  of  Dainopoulos,  so  Mr.  Spokesly  took  it 
with  him  and  promised  to  call  next  day. 

There  was  something  dashing  about  a  finish  like  that,  he 
reflected,  as  he  sat  down  on  the  bed  in  a  room  in  the  Olympos 
Hotel.  A  word  to  the  paymaster  had  secured  him  that  privi- 
lege. He  regretted  he  had  not  noted  more  particularly  the 
sj>orting  Jack  Harrowby,  but  it  did  not  do  to  have  much 
traffic  with  those  fellows,  they  were  so  cheeky.  He  untied 
his  parcel  and  looked  again  at  the  late  Harrowby 's  selection 
in  suitings.  He  had  bought  a  hat  on  the  way  down,  too,  a 
gray  felt,  respectably  stylish.  Now  he  would  be  able  to 
resume  his  place  in  the  world.  He  would  not  feel  like  a  fire- 
man out  of  a  job  when  he  went  to  see  these  naval  gentry. 
As  he  folded  up  his  wrinkled  and  salt-stained  trousers  he  re- 
membered the  ring  and  took  it  out.  That  was  a  rather 
peculiar  turn,  the  way  he  happened  to  have  it.  Just  a  fluke, 
putting  it  in  his  pocket  in  his  hurry.  Mr.  Spokesly  took  his 
lip  in  his  teeth  as  he  tried  to  get  the  hang,  as  he  called  it,  of  all 
these  intricate  turns  in  his  destiny.  He  recalled  the  unusual 
and  puzzling  exaltation  he  had  experienced  that  evening  when 
he  went  ashore  with  Archy,  and  he  began  to  wonder  whether 
after  all  it  would  be  good  for  a  man  to  know  too  accurately 
what  the  future  held  for  him.  His  hands,  so  to  speak,  were 
full  now.  Life  was  tremendously  interesting,  once  one  got 
away  from  routine  and  discipUne  and  all  these  conventional 
ideas.  He  was,  practically,  a  free  agent  now.  It  was  up  to 
himself  to  go  ahead  carefully  and  make  no  silly  mistakes. 
No  harm  in  walking  round  to  that  post-card  shop  near  the 
Ottoman  Bank,  however.  He  remembered  seeing  Jack 
Harrowby  hanging  over  the  counter  once,  as  he  went  by.  A 
dark  little  piece  with  a  powdered  nose. 

Mr.  Spokesly  could  not  have  explained  this  ridiculous 
curiosity  about  a  girl  he  did  not  know,  but  it  was  a  simple 
enough  by-product  of  his  new  state  of  mind.  There  is  noth- 
ing unusual  in  a  man,  suddenly  awakened  to  full  consciousness 
by  some  one  woman,  becoming  interested  in  all  women.  So 
far  from  a  man  being  unable  to  love  more  than  one  woman,  it 


COMMAND  143 

may  be  doubted  whether  at  first  he  can  do  anything  else. 
The  tender  soHcitudes  and  almost  religious  exclusiveness  are 
later  phases  of  the  passion.  Mr.  Spokesly  even  looked  for- 
ward to  a  sentimental  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Dainopoulos.  It 
made  him  feel  a  bit  of  a  dog,  as  did  this  affair  of  Jack  Harrow- 
by's  flame.  As  he  went  along  the  Front  he  wondered  if  she 
would  go  out  to  lunch  with  him.  And  then  he  saw  that  the 
post-card  shop  was  shut  up  and  a  sentry  stood  in  front  with 
his  rifle  on  his  shoulder.  Mr.  Spokesly  walked  on  and  turned 
up  the  next  street.  The  sight  of  that  closed  shop  and  the 
sentry  gave  him  a  chill  all  down  his  spine.  What  had 
happened.?  He  made  his  way  to  the  establishment  of  Mr. 
Dainop)oulos.  That  gentleman  at  once  exclaimed  at  the 
improved  appearance  of  his  friend,  but  without  quitting  his 
accounts  which  littered  the  desk  and  overflowed  on  to  the 
shelves  along  the  sides.  He  offered  a  chair  and  a  cigarette. 
Mr.  Spokesly  watched  him  with  respect.  He  had  sense 
enough,  to  see  that  Mr.  Dainopoulos  was  only  doing  business 
in  the  old-fashioned  way,  as  it  was  done  in  England  and  in 
New  England,  too,  before  shipowners  became  too  exalted  to 
talk  to  their  own  shipmasters  or  to  go  down  to  meet  their  own 
ships.  There  might  be  something  in  this  business  for  him 
even  after  the  war.  K  it  grew  there  would  be  an  overlooker 
needed.  He  let  his  mind  go  forward.  Perhaps  the  Tangan- 
yika's sudden  eclipse  was  really  a  blessing  in  disguise.  An  ill 
wind  blowing  prosperity  in  his  direction.  It  would  be  unjust 
to  say  of  him  that  he  did  not  regret  the  loss  of  those  lives. 
He  did,  as  sincerely  as  anybody  else.  But  he  was  alive  and 
they  were  dead,  and  if  there  is  one  thing  men  learn  promptly 
it  is  the  difference  between  the  quick  and  the  dead.  So  he 
let  his  mind  go  forward.  And  when  Captain  Rannie  sud- 
denly came  in,  Mr.  Spokesly  almost  failed  to  recognize  him. 
Not  that  Captain  Rannie  particularly  desired  recognition. 
He  sat  down  and  continued  a  monologue  on  the  decay  of 
morals  in  the  merchant  service.  Went  back  to  the  ship,  and 
what  did  he  find?  Nothing  done.  Mate  and  engineer  play- 
ing cards  in  the  cabin.  Cook  drunk.  And  so  on.  From 
bad  to  worse. 


144  COMMAND 

"But  Where's  the  harm  in  a  game  of  cards.  Captain?" 
asked  Mr.  Spokesly,  sUghtly  amused. 

This  question  upset  Captain  Rannie  very  much.  He  was 
unused  to  questions  from  strangers.  It  interrupted  the  flow 
of  his  thought.  He  looked  down  at  his  feet  and  took  out  a 
cigarette. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  as  though  an  astonishingly  fresh  argument 
was  about  to  be  born.  "Ah!  That's  the  point,  that's  the 
point.  No  harm  at  all.  It's  the  principle  that's  at  stake — 
I  expressly  stated  my  dislike  of  the  cabin  being  used  as  a 
gambling-den  and  these  ofiicers  of  mine  expressly  disregard 
my  repeated  instructions.  And  it's  coming  to  a  point,"  he 
added  darkly  as  Mr.  Dainopoulos  hurried  across  the  street 
to  speak  to  an  acquaintance,  "when  either  they  get  out  or  I 
do." 

It  was  obvious  that  Captain  Rannie  lived  in  a  world  of  his 
own,  a  world  in  which  he  was  the  impotent,  dethroned,  and 
outraged  deity.  Now  he  was  prepared  to  abdicate  into  the 
bargain.  He  hinted  at  ultimatums,  distinct  understand- 
ing, and  other  paraphernalia  of  sovereignty,  for  all  the 
world  as  though  he  were  a  European  power.  By  all  this  he 
meant  nothing  more  than  to  impress  Mr.  Spokesly  with  the 
solemn  responsibility  of  being  chief  officer  under  him.  But 
Mr.  Spokesly  was  regarding  him  with  attention  and  he  was 
not  impressed.  He  was  looking  for  the  elusive  yet  indubi- 
table mark  of  character  which  is  so  necessary  in  a  commander, 
a  gesture  often  closely  imitated,  which  carries  out  to  men  the 
conviction  that  he  bears  within  himself  a  secret  repository  of 
confidence  and  virtue,  to  be  drawn  upon  in  moments  of  con- 
flict with  the  forces  of  nature  and  the  turbulent  spirits  of 
men.  And  he  did  not  find  it.  Mr.  Spokesly  had  had  no 
opportunity  of  discovering  this  repository  in  himself.  In- 
deed, many  men  achieve  great  deeds  and  die  gloriously 
without  ever  having  been  conscious  of  the  sacred  force.  But 
he  knew  it  and  felt  it  when  he  came  near  it,  whatever  can- 
tankerous habits  of  grievance  he  may  have  cultivated.  And 
it  was  necessary  for  him  now  to  judge  men  for  themselves. 
Imitations  would  not  do.     As  though  aware  of  the  scrutiny 


COMMAND  145 

and  the  motive.  Captain  Rannie  proceeded  with  even  more 
eloquence,  and  more  Hke  a  ventriloquist's  dummy  than  ever, 
to  outline  what  in  his  opinion  was  the  whole  duty  of  an  oflScer. 
The  long  scrawny  wrist  with  the  slave-bangle,  the  cigarette 
held  loosely  between  yellow  fingers,  waved  as  though  decid- 
ing the  fate  of  principalities.  He  spoke  in  full  resounding 
periods,  he  made  dramatic  pauses,  and  invoked  the  eternal 
principles  of  justice  and  decency  and  honour.  And  Mr. 
Spokesly  didn't  believe  a  word  of  it.  He  was  anxious  for  the 
mate  to  lose  his  job  because  he  wanted  it  himself.  But  he 
was  secretly  in  sympathy  with  him.  And  having  failed  to 
find  what  he  was  looking  for,  the  genius  of  command,  he 
began  to  wonder  what  there  was  inside  this  man  at  all.  It 
couldn't  be  simply  all  this  tosh  he  was  emitting.  He  must 
have  some  springs  of  love  and  hate  in  him,  some  secret  virtue 
or  vice  which  kept  him  going.  Mr.  Spokesly  was  interested. 
Men  were  not  so  simple,  so  negative,  now  he  himself  was  out 
on  his  own,  to  decide  for  himself,  to  be  master  of  his  own  fate. 

"Are  you  married.  Captain.?^"  he  asked,  in  a  brief  pause, 
with  a  flash  of  intuition.  Captain  Rannie  dropped  the 
match  he  was  holding,  changed  his  legs  and  began  moving  his 
neck  violently  in  his  collar  while  he  swallowed.  Several 
times  he  opened  his  mouth  to  speak  and  nothing  happened. 
He  looked  hard  at  Mr.  Spokesly 's  boots. 

"I  make  it  a  rule,"  he  said  at  length,  "and  I  expect  all  my 
officers  to  bear  it  in  mind,  to  have  no  dealings  in  personalities. 
I  ask  no  questions  about  a  man's  private  life  and  I  expect 
none.  I  hope  this  is  understood  from  the  first.  There's 
one  thing  I  simply  will  not  tolerate  and  that  is  prying  into 
my  private  affairs." 

"Well,  hang  it,  I  only  asked  a  perfectly  natural  question. 
No  offence.  Captain." 

"Precisely.  None  offered,  none  taken.  It's  the  principle 
I  insist  on." 

"I  suppose  you've  been  out  here  some  little  time,"  ventured 
Mr.  Spokesly. 

"That  is  a  matter  that  concerns  me  and  nobody  else," 
said  Captain  Rannie.     "That's  one  thing  I  find  very  much 


146  COMMAND 

in  vogue  nowadays.  Ceaseless  curiosity  about  irrelevant 
matters.  Do  I  ask  you  how  long  you've  been  out  here?  I 
certainly  do  not.  I  consider  it's  nothing  to  do  with  me. 
And  yet  I  am  considered  unreasonable  simply  because  I  de- 
mand common  decent  respect  for  my  own  private  affairs." 

"The  Captain  he  no  like  to  talk  about  his  aflFairs,"  said  Mr. 
Dainopoulos,  who  was  listening.  "  Don't  you  worry.  You'll 
find  him  all  right,  Mister.  To-morrow  you  start  on  the 
Kalkis.     That  all  right,  Captain?  " 

Captain  Rannie  seemed  under  the  stress  of  some  terrific 
emotion.  He  swallowed,  his  foot  tapped  the  floor,  the  slave- 
bangle  shot  up  out  of  sight;  and  he  regarded  a  point  about 
three  feet  up  the  wall  with  a  malignant  glare. 

"I'm  sure  I'd  never  dream  of  interfering  in  such  a  matter," 
he  said.  "What  you  do  I  must  stand  by.  You  make  the 
bed,  I  have  to  lie  on  it.  That's  what  a  shipmaster's  for. 
He's  a  doormat,  for  everybody  to  wipe  their  feet  on.  No 
matter  what  happens,  he  has  to  take  the  blame.  Fve  no 
objection  in  the  world.  I  expect  nothing,  and  that's  all  I 
get." 

Mr.  Dainopoulos  evidently  knew  his  captain,  for  he  said: 
"All  right.  That's  fixed.  Now,  when  we've  had  something 
to  eat  we'll  go  see  the  Transport  Officer.     He's  the  man." 

"I  hope  you  don't  want  me  to  go  with  you,"  said  Captain 
Rannie,  looking  down  at  the  floor  as  though  he  saw  the 
bottomless  pit  just  on  the  point  of  opening  under  their  feet. 
"I've  only  seen  the  man  once  and  then  he  failed  to  show  the 
very  slightest  glimmer  of  comprehension  of  what  I  had  to  put 
up  with.  Might  as  well  talk  to  a  stone  wall.  Absolutely. 
I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  see  your  Transport  Officer." 

"I  was  going  to  ask  you,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  "if  you  don't 
mind,  a  question.  You  seem  to  be  in  the  know  all  round 
here." 

"What  is  it?"  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  regarding  Mr. 
Spokesly  with  sudden  interest.  He  even  left  his  pen  in  the 
air  while  he  listened. 

Mr.  Spokesly  mentioned  the  incident  of  the  suit  of  clothes 
left  behind  by  the  indigent  Jack  Harrowby  and  the  memories 


COMMAND  147 

of  the  post-card  shop  evoked  by  the  interview  with  Mr.  Theo- 
tokis. 

Mr.  Dainopoulos  let  his  pen  descend  to  the  document  he 
was  auditing  and  nodded  in  comprehension. 

"Yes,  all  finished,  eh?  Wal,  what  you  think? '*  he  went  on 
nonchalantly.  "She  little  damn  fool.  She  tell  plenty  stories 
to  anybody  who  get  sweet  on  her,  you  unnerstand?  She 
hear  Tanganyika  go  south,  time  so  and  so.  She  talk" — here 
Mr.  Dainopoulos  made  a  gesture  with  his  thumb  and  fingers 
indicating  violent  blabbing — "ba-ba-ba-ba!  Now  she's  in 
jail.  Tanganyika,  wal,  you  know  all  about  Tanganyika, 
Mister.  You  unnerstand;  these  peoples,  French,  English, 
they  play,  you  know,  golf  and  tennees,  and  seem  half  asleep." 
He  shook  his  head.  "No!  Not  asleep.  Very  bad  business 
that.  Me;  I  go  all  the  time  like  this."  And  he  drew  a 
perfectly  straight  Une  with  his  pen  along  the  edge  of  his  desk. 
"That  crooked  business  no  good." 

Captain  Rannie  was  suddenly  overtaken  by  a  violent  fit 
of  coughing,  and  buried  his  nut-cracker  features  in  a  large 
plum-coloured  silk  handkerchief.  His  head  was  bowed,  his 
shoulders  heaved  horribly,  and  from  him  came  a  sound  like  an 
asthmatic  horse  whinnying.  He  might  have  been  laughing 
save  that  laughter  was  unknown  to  him  beyond  a  short  sharp 
yawp,  a  "Ha!"  involving  a  lift  of  the  diaphragm  and  an 
intake  of  breath.  And  since  none  had  ever  seen  him  laugh 
they  would  not  suspect  merriment  in  this  dreadful  cacophony, 
this  laryngeal  uproar,  which  had  so  suddenly  assailed  him. 
Mr.  Dainopoulos  looked  at  his  captain  very  sternly  and  then 
renewed  the  proposal  to  eat.  Captain  Hannie  rose,  joint  by 
joint,  and  stuffed  his  plum-coloured  handkerchief  into  his 
breast  pocket. 

"No,"  he  said,  and  Mr.  Spokesly  wondered  if  the  man  ever 
agreed  to  anything  except  under  protest.  "No,  I'm  a  two- 
meal-a-day  man  myself.  I  find  I  am  less  bilious  on  two 
meals  a  day.  And  anyhow,  after  that,  I  couldn't  possibly 
eat  anything." 

And  he  coughed  himself  out  of  the  door. 

Mr.  Dainopoulos  stared  after  him,  his  features  destitute 


148  COMMAND 

of  any  emotion  at  all.  Captain  Rannie  halted,  turned  half 
round,  and  it  almost  seemed  as  though  for  once  in  his  life  he 
was  going  to  raise  his  eyes  and  look  somebody  square  in  the 
face.  But  he  paused  at  the  second  button  of  his  owner's 
waistcoat  and  nodded  several  times,  his  toothless  mouth 
open,  a  perfect  ventriloquist's  dummy. 

"I'll  have  indigestion  for  a  fortnight,"  he  said.  "Abso- 
lutely." And  he  started  off  again, the  plum-coloured  hand- 
kerchief to  his  face,  his  shoulders  heaving,  making  a  noise 
like  a  foundered  horse. 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?"  Mr.  Spokesly  felt  justified 
in  asking. 

"He's  an  old  bum!"  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos  with  a  gloomy 
air,  but  made  no  further  allusion  to  the  bronchial  troubles  of 
his  captain.  The  fact  was,  as  Mr.  Spokesly  became  aware  in 
time,  that  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  in  the  course  of  his  many  ne- 
gotiations, was  obliged  to  entrust  some  of  the  business  to  his 
employees.  And  a  stroke  of  business  entirely  correct  to  him 
did  not  make  that  impression  upon  Captain  Rannie,  who  was 
under  the  illusion  that  he  himself  was  the  soul  of  honour. 
So  he  was,  in  theory.  When  Captain  Rannie  did  a  mean 
and  dishonourable  action,  it  bore  to  him  the  aspect  of  an  act 
of  singular  rectitude.  And  he  promptly  forgot  all  about  it. 
He  wiped  it  out  of  his  mind  as  off  a  slate.  It  was  gone;  had 
never  existed,  in  fact.  For  the  exploits  of  others,  however, 
he  not  only  never  left  off  thinking  about  them,  but  he  could 
not  be  induced  to  refrain  from  discussing  them,  for  ever  and 
ever.  Anyone  who  had  ever  had  any  dealings  with  him 
would  find  him  an  embarrassing  witness  at  the  Day  of  Judg- 
ment, if  we  are  correct  in  assuming  that  witnesses  will  be 
called.  Mr.  Dainopoulos  could  not  afford  to  quarrel  with 
him,  but  he  sometimes  wished  he  had  a  more  amiable  dis- 
position, and  could  get  on  better  with  his  crew.  And  he  felt 
for  him  also  the  puzzled  contempt  which  men  of  affairs  feel 
for  the  sensualist.  An  elderly  man  who,  as  Mr.  Dainopoulos 
had  heard,  had  a  wife  somewhere  and  a  married  daughter 
somewhere  else,  and  who  was  continually  engaged  in  some 
shabby  unmentionable  intrigue,  made  one  feel  a  little  un- 


COMMAND  149 

comfortable  and  slightly  ashamed  of  one's  species.  Captain 
Rannie's  view  of  his  own  conduct  was  not  available,  for  he 
never  by  any  chance  recognized  the  existence  of  such  affairs 
in  his  intercourse  with  other  men.  His  sentiments  about 
women  were  unknown  save  what  might  be  gathered  from 
his  short  sharp  yawp — "Ha!" — ^whenever  they  were  men- 
tioned, the  laugh  of  a  noble  nature  embittered  by  base  in- 
gratitude. So  he  visualized  himself.  No  one  had  ever  be- 
trayed the  slightest  gratitude  for  anything  he  had  ever 
done.  So  he  would  be  revenged  on  the  whole  pack  of  them — 
Ha! 

It  was  Mr.  Spokesly's  chance  question,  whether  the  Cap- 
tain was  a  visitor  at  the  house,  which  let  him  fully  into  the 
mind  and  temper  of  his  new  employer. 

"He's  not  that  sort  of  man,"  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  shovel- 
ling beans  into  his  mouth  with  a  knife.  "My  wife,  she 
wouldn't  like  him,  I  guess.  He's  got  something  of  his  own, 
y'unnerstand.  Like  your  friend  Mr.  Bates,  only  he  don't 
drink.     He  take  the  pipe  a  leetle.     Yousavvy.^^" 

Mr.  Spokesly  remembered  this  conversation  later  on,  when 
events  had  suddenly  carried  him  beyond  the  range  of  Mr. 
Dainopoulos  and  his  intense  respectability.  He  remembered 
it  because  he  realized  that  Mr.  Dainopoulos  at  that  time,  and 
behind  his  mask  of  bourgeois  probity,  which  had  been  so 
enigmatically  received  by  Captain  Rannie,  was  devising  a 
daring  and  astute  stroke  of  business  based  on  his  exact 
knowledge  of  the  iEgean  and  his  relations  with  the  late  con- 
suls of  enemy  powers.  And  Captain  Rannie,  of  course,  had 
been  aware  of  this.  But  at  the  moment  Mr.  Spokesly  easily 
abandoned  the  morals  of  his  new  commander  and  listened 
to  what  might  be  called  the  wisdom  of  the  Near  East.  He 
thought  there  was  no  harm  in  asking  Mr.  Dainopoulos  what 
he  thought  of  the  emerald  ring.  That  gentleman  evidently 
thought  a  great  deal  of  it.  He  offered  to  buy  it,  spot  cash, 
for  a  thousand  drachma,  about  one  sixth  of  its  actual  value. 
He  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders  when  he  heard  the  tale  of 
a  woman  giving  it  to  Archy.  According  to  his  own  experience 
that  sort  of  woman  did  not  give  such  things  away  to  any- 


150  COMMAND 

body.  He  thoroughly  understood  precious  stones,  as  he 
understood  drugs,  carpets,  currency,  bric-a-brac,  dry  goods, 
wet  goods,  and  the  law  of  average.  He  noted  a  minute  flaw 
in  the  stone,  and  finally  handed  it  back  hurriedly,  telling  Mr. 
Spokesly  to  give  it  away  to  some  lady. 

"Or  throw  it  into  the  sea,"  he  added,  drinking  a  glass  of 
wine  in  a  gulp. 

"What  for?"  demanded  Mr.  Spokesly,  mystified  by  this 
sudden  fancy. 

"Bad  luck,"  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos  laconically.  "It  be- 
long to  a  drowned  man,  you  unnerstand!  Better  give  it 
away." 

"I'll  give  it  to  Miss  Solaris." 

Mr.  Dainopoulos  eyed  Mr.  Spokesly  over  his  shoulder  as 
he  sat  with  his  elbows  on  the  table  holding  up  his  glass.  Mr. 
Spokesly  put  the  ring  in  his  pocket. 

"She'll  take  it,  all  right,"  said  his  friend  at  length,  and 
drank. 

"What  makes  you  so  sure?"  asked  Mr.  Spokesly. 

Mr.  Dainopoulos  was  not  prepared  to  answer  that  question 
in  English.  He  found  that  English,  as  he  knew  it,  was  an 
extraordinarily  wooden  and  cumbersome  vehicle  in  which  to 
convey  those  lightning  flashes  and  glares  and  sparkles  of 
thought  in  which  most  Latin  intelligences  communicate  with 
each  other.  You  could  say  very  little  in  English,  Mr. 
Dainopoulos  thought.  He  could  have  got  off  some  extremely 
good  things  about  Evanthia  Solaris  in  the  original  Greek,  but 
Mr.  Spokesly  would  not  have  understood  him.  If  he  were 
to  take  a  long  chance,  however,  by  saying  that  the  vulture 
up  in  the  sky  sees  the  dead  mouse  in  the  ravine,  he  was  not 
at  all  sure  of  the  result. 

"Aw,"  he  said  in  apology  for  his  diflSculty,  "the  ladies, 
they  like  the  pretty  rings." 

"I  can  see  you  don't  like  her,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  smiling  a 
little. 

"My  friend,"  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  and  he  turned  his 
black,  bloodshot  eyes,  with  their  baggy  pouches  of  skin 
fonning  purplish  crescents  below  them,  on  his  companion. 


COMMAND  151 

"My  friend,  I'm  married.  Women,  I  got  no  use  for  them, 
you  unnerstand?  You  no  unnerstand.  By  and  by,  you 
know  what  I  mean.  My  wife,  all  the  time  she  sick,  all  the 
time.  She  like  Miss  Solaris.  All  right.  For  my  wife  any- 
thing in  the  world.  But  me,  I  got  my  business.  By  and  by, 
ah!" 

"What  about  by  and  by.'^"  asked  Mr.  Spokesly,  curious 
in  spite  of  himself.  He  began  to  think  Mr.  Dainopoulos  was 
a  rather  interesting  human  being,  a  remarkable  concession 
from  an  EngUshman. 

Mr.  Dainopoulos  did  not  reply  immediately.  He  had  a 
vision  splendid  in  his  mind,  but  it  was  hazy  and  vague  in 
details.  His  somewhat  oriental  conception  of  happiness  was 
tempered  by  an  austere  idealism  inspired  by  his  wife.  He 
could  never  have  achieved  his  ambition,  let  us  say,  in  Haver- 
stock  Hill,  London  N.,  or  Newark,  N.  J.  He  demanded  a 
background  of  natural  features  as  a  setting  for  his  grandiose 
plans  for  the  future.  No  westerner  could  understand  his 
dreams,  for  example,  of  a  black  automobile  with  sohd  silver  fit- 
tings and  upholstery  of  orange  corded  silk,  in  which  his  wife 
could  take  the  air  along  a  magnificent  corniche  road  flanked  by 
lemon-coloured  rocks  and  an  azure  sea.  Other  refinements, 
such  as  silken  window-blinds,  striped  green  and  white,  keeping 
the  bhnding  sparkle  of  that  sea  from  invading  the  cool  recesses 
of  voluptuous  chambers,  came  to  him  from  time  to  time.  But 
he  could  not  talk  about  it.  He  did  not  even  speak  to  his  wife 
of  his  dream.  He  believed  she  knew  without  his  telling  her. 
She  knew  nothing  about  it,  imagining  that  he  was  merely 
concocting  some  httle  surprise  such  as  buying  a  cottage  in 
the  country  down  in  Warwickshire,  where  she  believed  her 
people  came  from  in  the  days  of  William  the  Fourth.  Buying 
cottages  was  not  her  husband's  idea  of  solidifying  a  position, 
however.  For  him,  living  in  a  hovel  while  making  money 
was  justified  by  frugality  and  convenience,  but  retiring  to  a 
cottage  would  be  a  confession  of  defeat. 

So  he  did  not  enhghten  Mr.  Spokesly.  He  paused  awhile 
and  then  remarked  that  he  hoped  to  get  finished  with  busi- 
ness some  day.     No  one  could  possibly  take  exception  to  this. 


152  COMMAND 

They  did  not  see  the  officer  who  had  been  so  anxious  for 
Mr.  Spokesly  to  visit  the  Persian  Gulf  during  the  coming  sum- 
mer. That  gentleman  had  gone  to  see  a  dentist,  it  appeared, 
and  a  young  writer  informed  them  that  it  would  be  all  right 
so  long  as  the  captain  of  the  vessel  was  British. 

"Yes,  he's  British  all  right — Captain  Rannie — ^he's  got  a 
passport,"  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos.  And  when  he  was  asked 
when  he  would  be  ready  to  load,  he  said  as  soon  as  the  Captain 
gave  him  a  berth. 

"He  put  us  three  mile  away,  and  it  takes  a  tug  an  hour  and 
a  half  to  get  to  the  ship,*'  he  remarked,  "with  coal  like  what 
it  is  now." 

"Well,  of  course  we  can't  put  everybody  at  the  pier,  you 
know,"  said  the  young  writer  genially,  quite  forgetting  that 
Mr.  Dainopoulos  had  deftly  inserted  an  item  in  the  charte 
partie  which  gave  him  a  generous  allowance  for  lighterage. 

"All  right,"  said  he,  as  though  making  a  decent  concession. 
"You  know  they  tell  me  they  want  this  stuff  in  a  hurry,  eh.?" 

The  young  writer  did  not  know  but  he  pretended  he  did, 
and  said  he  would  attend  to  it.  So  they  bade  him  good  day 
and  took  their  way  back  to  the  Bureau  de  Change.  Mr. 
Dainopoulos  had  left  it  in  charge  of  a  young  Jew,  a  youth  so 
desperately  poor  and  so  fanatically  honest  that  he  seemed  a 
living  caricature  of  all  moral  codes.  Neither  his  poverty  nor 
his  probity  seemed  remarkable  enough  to  keep  him  in  employ- 
ment, doubtless  because,  like  millions  of  other  people  in 
southeastern  Europe,  he  had  neither  craft  of  mind  nor  hand. 
Mr.  Dainopoulos  got  him  small  situations  from  time  to  time, 
and  in  between  these  he  hung  about,  running  errands,  and 
keeping  shop,  a  pale,  dwarfed,  ragged  creature,  with  emacia- 
ted features  and  brilliant  pathetic  eyes.  He  was  wearing  a 
pair  of  woman's  boots,  much  too  large  for  him,  burst  at  the 
sides  and  with  heels  dreadfully  run  over,  so  that  he  kept 
twitching  himself  erect.  Mr.  Dainopoulos  waved  a  hand 
towards  this  young  paragon. 

"See  if  you  can  find  him  a  job  on  the  Kalkis,**  he  said. 
"Very  honest  young  feller."  They  spoke  rapidly  to  each 
other  and  Mr.  Dainopoulos  gave  an  amused  grunt. 


COMMAND  153 

"He  say  he  don't  want  to  go  in  a  ship.  Scared  she  go 
down/'  he  remarked. 

The  boy  looked  down  the  street  with  an  expression  of  sup- 
pressed grief  on  his  face.  He  rolled  his  eyes  towards  his 
benefactor,  imploring  mercy.  Mr.  Dainopoulos  spoke  to 
him  again. 

"He'll  go,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Spokesly.  "Fix  him  to  help 
the  cook.  And  if  you  want  anybody  to  take  a  letter,  he's  a 
very  honest  young  feller." 

The  very  honest  young  feller  shrank  away  to  one  side, 
evidently  feeling  no  irresistible  vocation  for  the  sea.  Indeed, 
he  resembled  one  condemned  to  die.  He  and  his  kind  swarm 
in  the  ports  of  the  Levant,  the  Semitic  parasites  of  sea-borne 
commerce,  yet  rarely  setting  foot  upon  a  ship.  He  drooped, 
as  though  his  limbs  had  liquefied  and  he  was  about  to  collapse. 
Mr.  Dainopoulos,  however,  to  whom  ethnic  distinctions  of 
such  refinement  were  of  no  interest,  ignored  him  and  per- 
mitted him  to  revel  in  his  agony  at  a  near-by  cafe  table. 

"You  come  to  my  house  to-night,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Spokesly. 
"I  got  one  or  two  little  things  to  fix." 

"Me  too,"  said  his  new  chief  officer,  who  suddenly  felt  he 
needed  urgently  to  meet  his  own  kind  again.  Mr.  Daino- 
poulos was  all  right  of  course,  but  Mr.  Spokesly  still  retained 
the  illusion  that  Anglo-Saxon  superiority  was  accepted  by 
the  world  like  gravity  and  the  other  laws  of  nature.  It  would 
not  do  to  make  himself  too  cheap,  he  reflected.  He  had  an 
unpleasant  feeling  that  his  late  captain  on  the  Tanganyika 
would  have  stared  if  he  had  seen  his  chief  officer  hobnobbing 
with  a  money-changer  and  a  Jewish  youth  of  almost  incon- 
ceivable honesty  and  destitution.  Mr.  Spokesly 's  wit,  how- 
ever, was  nimble  enough  now  to  see  that  Captain  Meredith 
himself  had  not  always  been  a  quiet,  refined,  and  competent 
commander;  and  moreover.  Captain  Meredith  might  quite 
conceivably  have  seen  and  taken  a  chance  like  this  himself, 
had  he  been  in  the  way  of  it.  But  just  now  what  was  wanted 
was  a  chat  and  a  drink  with  a  friend.  He  would  go  down  to 
the  hotel  and  find  the  lieutenant. 

But  this  was  not  to  be.     As  he  entered  the  foyer  of  the 


154  COMMAND 

hotel,  a  major  and  a  round-faced  person  in  civilian  clothes 
regarded  him  with  exaggerated  attention.  Their  protracted 
examination  of  him  made  him  feel  somewhat  self-conscious, 
and  to  ease  the  situation  he  spoke  to  them. 

"I'm  looking  for  a  friend  of  mine,"  he  said,  "a  Ueutenant 
in  the  Harbour  Office.     I  don't  know  his  name." 

"Don't  know  his  name!"  said  the  major,  boring  into  Mr. 
Spokesly  with  his  cold  ironical  stare. 

"I  only  met  him  this  morning,"  he  explained.  "Me 
coming  ashore  from  the  Tanganyika,  you  see." 

"Oh,  yes."     This  in  a  more  human  tone. 

"And  him  being  the  only  man  I  know,  pretty  near,  I  was 
looking  for  him." 

"I  see.  Well,  old  chap,  he's  generally  about  pickled  this 
time  of  day,  if  he's  the  man  I  think  you  mean.  Up  at  the 
Cercle  Militaire — d'you  know  it? — or  the  White  Tower  Bar. 
Better  take  a  look  along." 

"Thanks,"  said  Mr.  Sp>okesly  with  a  slight  smile. 

"Don't  mention  it.  By  the  way,  are  you  being  sent 
home.^" 

"I'm  going  on  a  local  ship  down  to  the  Islands,"  he  replied. 

"Notthei^aZAn^.?" 

Mr.  Spokesly  nodded,  and  said  he  was  going  mate. 

"Well,  look  here.  I'm  Officer  of  Supply,  you  know.  You 
might  look  me  up — ^you  know  where  it  is — and  we'll  have  a 
word  about  the  cargo.     Yes,  in  the  morning." 

The  major  and  his  friend  the  censor,  who  was  also  a 
novelist,  gazed  after  Mr.  Spokesly  as  he  went  out. 

"I  believe  that  fellow  Dainopoulos  is  on  the  level  after 
all,"  said  the  major,  drawing  hard  at  his  cigarette.  "I  know 
his  skipper  is  a  Britisher,  and  this  chap's  all  right,  I  should 
say.  Well,  he's  making  enough  out  of  it  to  give  us  a  fair 
deal." 

"Most  of  these  local  people  are  on  our  side,  I  think,"  said 
the  other. 

"If  we  pay  them  more  than  the  other  side,"  added  the 
major  drily.  And  then  they  went  up  to  get  ready  for  their 
dinner. 


COMMAND  155 

Mr.  Spokesly  called  a  carriage  and  started  along  the  quaL 
He  wondered  what  they  wanted  of  him  about  the  cargo! 
Was  it  possible  Captain  Rannie  was  not  regarded  with  com- 
plete confidence  at  headquarters?  He  recalled  the  extraor- 
dinary reception  the  Captain  had  given  to  his  owner  when 
Mr.  Dainopoulos  described  the  undeviating  rectitude  of  his 
course.  Mr.  Spokesly  was  not  simple  enough  to  suppose  that 
the  Kalhis  was  as  innocent  as  she  looked  in  the  distance.  He 
knew  that  the  delicate  and  precarious  position  of  the  Allies 
in  Saloniki  rendered  it  necessary  to  wink  at  a  good  deal  of 
adventurous  trading  in  which  the  local  Levantine  merchants 
were  past-masters.  It  could  not  be  helped.  But  he  was 
puzzled  to  account  for  Captain  Rannie.  How  had  he  come 
to  be  in  the  employ  of  Mr.  Dainopoulos.^  And  what  was  the 
lure  which  held  him  to  a  sort  of  snarling  fidelity  .^^  Perhaps 
he  also  had  a  tremendous  love  affair,  like  Jack  Harrowby. 
Mr.  Dainopoulos  had  hinted  at  shabby  intrigues.  Even  Mr. 
Dainopoulos,  however,  was  not  quite  on  safe  ground  here. 
Captain  Rannie  had  his  own  way  of  enjoying  himself,  and  an 
essential  part  of  that  enjoyment  was  its  secrecy.  He  couldn't 
bear  anybody  to  know  anything  about  him.  He  was  averse, 
in  fact,  to  admitting  that  he  ever  did  enjoy  himself.  It  was 
too  much  like  letting  his  opponents  score  against  him.  And 
so  people  like  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  familiar  with  evil,  imagined 
the  captain  to  be  much  more  wicked  than  he  ever  ventured 
to  be.  The  drug  whose  aid  he  invoked  made  him  look  not 
only  aged  but  sinful  as  a  compensation  for  the  glimpses  into 
the  paradise  of  perpetual  youth  which  it  afforded  him  while 
he  was  lying  amid  huge  puffy  pillows,  in  a  house  near  the 
Bazaar.  It  gave  him  genuine  pleasure  to  escape  every 
familiar  human  eye,  and  arrive  by  devious  ways  at  a  secret 
door  in  a  foul  alley,  which  gave  on  to  the  back  of  the  house 
where  a  quiet,  elderly  woman  and  her  thirteen-year-old 
daughter  received  him  and  wafted  him  gently  away  into 
elysium.  He  was  a  sensualist  no  doubt,  yet  it  would  puzzle 
a  jury  of  angels  to  find  him  more  guilty  than  many  men  of 
more  amiable  repute.  When  he  sank  into  one  of  his  torpors, 
the  quiet  woman  holding  his  pulse,  he  felt  he  was  getting 


156  COMMAND 

even  with  the  wife  and  daughter  who  had  made  him  so  un- 
happy in  past  days.  Captain  Rannie  never  did  anything 
without  what  he  called  *'full  warrant."  He  considered  he 
had  full  warrant  for  killing  himself  with  drugs  if  he  wished. 
He  merely  refrained  out  of  consideration  for  the  world. 
Away  back  in  the  womb  of  Time,  some  forgotten  but  eternal 
principle  of  justice  had  decreed  to  him  the  right  to  do  as  he 
pleased,  provided,  always  provided,  he  did  his  duty  in  his 
public  station.  This  is  a  common  enough  doctrine  in  Europe 
and  a  difficult  one  to  abrogate.  Mr.  Spokesly,  driving  along 
the  quai  toward  the  White  Tower,  would  have  been  the  last 
to  deny  what  Captain  Rannie  called  "a  common  elementary 
right."  He  was  invoking  it  himself.  What  he  was  trying 
to  do  all  this  while*was  to  achieve  an  outlet  for  his  own  person- 
ality. This  was  "really  behind  even  his  intrigue  with  the 
London  School  of  Mnemonics.  He  was  convinced  he  had 
something  in  him  which  the  pressures  and  conventions  of  the 
world  had  never  permitted  to  emerge.  It  must  be  borne  in 
mind  that  the  grand  ideal  of  sacrifice  which  swept  over  us 
like  a  giant  wave  of  emotion  at  the  beginning  of  the  war 
behaved  like  all  waves.  It  receded  eventually,  and  those  of 
us  whose  natures  were  durable  rather  than  soluble  emerged 
and  began  to  take  in  the  situation  while  we  dried  ourselves 
as  quickly  as  possible.  We  wondered  if  there  might  not  be 
some  valuable  wreckage  washing  ashore  soon.  We  got  into 
the  universal  life-saving  uniform,  of  course,  and  assumed 
conventional  attitudes  of  looking  out  to  sea  and  acting  as 
chorus  to  the  grand  principal  performers;  but  the  habits  and 
instincts  of  generations  were  too  strong  for  us.  We  kept  one 
eye  on  the  beaches  for  wreckage.  Patriotism  became  an 
intricate  game  of  bluffing  ourselves.  We  had  returned  with 
naive  simplicity  to  the  habits  of  our  Danish  and  Saxon  and 
Norman  ancestors.  Like  the  Jews  in  London  who  joined 
lustily  in  the  chorus  of  "Onward,  Christian  Soldiers,"  we 
missed  the  joke  in  our  furious  eagerness  to  seize  the  oppor- 
tunity. But  there  were  many,  and  Mr.  Spokesly  was  one, 
whose  acquisitive  genius  was  not  adequately  deveIof)ed  to 
deal  with  all  the  chances  of  loot  that  came  by,  and  who  were 


COMMAND  157 

preoccupied  with  the  fascinating  problem  of  establishing 
their  egos  on  a  higher  plane.  Merely  becoming  engaged  had 
been  an  advance,  for  Mr.  Spokesly,  because  men  like  him  can 
move  neither  upward  nor  downward  without  the  aid  of 
women.  Once  removed  from  the  influence  of  Ada  by  a 
series  of  events  which  he  could  not  control,  he  was  the  pre- 
destined prey  of  the  next  woman  ahead.  Those  who  view 
this  career  with  contempt  should  reflect  upon  the  happiness 
and  longevity  of  many  who  pursue  it.  Mr.  Spokesly  was  no 
sensualist  in  the  strict  meaning  of  the  word.  He  simply 
experienced  a  difficulty  in  having  any  spiritual  life  apart  from 
women.  He  could  do  with  a  minimum  of  inspiration,  but 
such  as  he  needed  had  to  come  from  them.  All  his  thoughts 
clustered  about  them.  Just  as  he  experienced  a  feeling  of 
exaltation  when  he  found  himself  in  their  company,  so  he 
could  never  see  another  man  similarly  engaged  without  re- 
garding him  as  a  being  of  singular  fortune.  Always,  more- 
over, he  conceived  the  woman  he  did  not  know  as  a  creature 
of  extraordinary  gifts.  Evanthia  Solaris  seemed  to  have 
eluded  classification  because,  without  possessing  any  gifts  at 
all  beyond  a  certain  magnetism  bewilderingly  composed  of 
feminine  timidity  and  tigerish  courage,  she  had  inspired  in 
him  a  strange  belief  that  she  would  bring  him  good  fortune. 
This  was  the  kind  of  woman  she  was.  She  went  much  farther 
back  into  the  history  of  the  world  than  Ada  Rivers.  Ada 
was  simply  a  modern  authorized  version  of  Lady  Rowena  or 
Rebecca  of  York.  She  accepted  man,  though  what  she 
really  wanted  was  a  knight.  Evanthia  had  no  use  for 
knights,  save  perhaps  those  of  Aristophanes.  She,  too,  ac- 
cepted men;  but  they  had  to  transform  themselves  quickly 
and  efficiently  into  the  votaries  of  a  magnetic  goddess.  Sighs 
and  vows  of  allegiance  were  as  nothing  at  all  to  her.  She  had 
a  divinely  dynamic  energy  which  set  men  going  the  way  she 
wanted.  The  gay  young  devil  who  had  been  sent  packing 
with  the  consuls  and  who  was  now  sitting  in  his  hotel  in  Pera 
was  wondering  at  his  luck  in  escaping  from  her  and  scheming 
how  to  get  back  to  her  at  the  same  time.  Yet  so  astute  had 
she  been  that  even  now  he  did  not  suspect  that  she  was  schem- 


158  COMMAND 

ing,  too,  that  she  was  in  an  agony  at  times  for  the  loss  of  him, 
and  talked  to  Mrs.  Dainopoulos  of  killing  herself.  She  was 
scheming  as  she  came  walking  among  the  grass-plats  at  the 
base  of  the  Tower  and  saw  Mr.  Spokesly  descend  from  a 
carriage  and  take  a  seat  facing  the  sea.  She  came  along,  as 
she  so  often  did  in  her  later  period,  at  a  vital  moment.  She 
came,  in  her  suit  of  pale  saffron  with  the  great  crown  of  black 
straw  withdrawing  her  face  into  a  magically  distant  gloom, 
and  holding  a  delicate  little  wrap  on  her  arm  against  the  night, 
for  the  sun  was  going  down  behind  the  distant  hills  and  touch- 
ing the  waters  of  the  Gulf  with  ruddy  fire.  She  saw  him 
sitting  there,  and  smiled.  He  was  watching  a  ship  going  out, 
a  ship  making  for  the  narrow  strait  between  the  headland  and 
the  marshes  of  the  Vardar,  and  thinking  of  his  life  as  it  was 
opening  before  him.  He  took  out  a  cigarette  and  his  fingers 
searched  a  vest-pocket  for  matches.  They  closed  on  the 
emerald  ring  and  he  held  the  cigarette  for  a  while  unlit,  think- 
ing of  Evanthia,  and  wondered  how  he  could  make  the  gift. 
And  as  he  sat  there  she  seemed  to  materialize  out  of  the 
shimmering  radiance  of  the  evening  air,  prinking  and  bending 
forward  with  an  enchanting  smile  to  catch  his  eye.  And 
before  he  could  draw  a  breath,  sat  down  beside  him. 

"What  you  do  here.?^"  she  asked  in  her  sweet,  twittering 
voice.     "You  wait  for  somebody,  eh?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  rousing,  "for  you." 

"  Ah — h ! "  her  eyes  snapped  under  the  big  brim.  "  How  do 
I  know  you  only  tell  me  that  because  I  am  here?" 

Her  hand,  gloved  in  lemon  kid,  was  near  his  knee  and  he 
took  it  meditatively,  pulling  back  the  wrist  of  it  until  she 
drew  away  and  removed  it  herself,  smiling. 

"Eh?"  she  demanded,  not  quite  sure  if  he  had  caught  her 
drift,  so  deliberate  was  his  mood.  He  took  the  ring  out  of  his 
pocket  and  grasped  her  hand  while  he  slid  the  gem  over  a 
finger.  She  let  it  rest  there  for  a  moment,  studying  the 
situation.  No  one  was  near  them  just  then.  And  then  she 
looked  up  right  into  his  face  leaning  a  little  towards  him.  Her 
voice  caught  a  little  as  she  sp>oke.  It  was  ravishing,  a  ring 
like  that.     For  a  flicker  of  an  eyelash  she  was  off  her  guard. 


COMMAND  159 

and  he  caught  a  smoulder  of  extraordinary  passion  in  her  half- 
closed  eyes. 

"You  like  me,"  she  twittered  softly. 

The  sun  had  gone,  the  gray  water  was  ruffled  by  si  little 
wind,  the  wind  of  evening,  and  as  the  guns  boomed  on  the 
warships  in  the  roadstead  the  ensigns  came  down. 

"You  like  me,"  she  said  again,  bending  over  a  little  more, 
for  his  eyes  were  watching  the  ships  and  she  could  not  bear 
it.  Suddenly  he  put  his  arm  across  her  shoulders  and  held 
her.     And  then  he  used  a  strange  and  terrible  expression. 

"I'd  go  to  hell  for  you,"  he  said. 

She  leaned  back  with  a  sigh  of  utter  content. 


CHAPTER  X 

HE  LOOKED  down  from  his  window  in  the  morning 
into  a  garden  of  tangled  and  neglected  vegetation 
sparkling  with  dew.  Over  the  trees  beyond  the  road 
lay  the  Gulf,  a  sheet  of  azure  and  misty  gray.  He  looked  at 
it  and  endeavoured  to  bring  his  thoughts  into  some  sort  of 
practical  order  while  he  shaved  and  dressed.  The  adventure 
of  the  previous  evening,  however,  was  so  fresh  and  disturbing 
that  he  could  do  nothing  save  return  to  it  again  and  again. 
At  intervals  he  would  pause  and  stand  looking  out,  thinking 
of  Evanthia  in  a  mood  of  extraordinary  delight. 

She  must  be,  he  reflected,  one  of  the  most  wonderful 
creatures  in  the  world.  He  had  not  believed  it  possible  that 
any  woman  could  so  transmute  the  hours  for  him  into  spheres 
of  golden  radiance.  The  evening  had  passed  like  a  dream. 
Indeed,  he  was  in  the  position  of  a  man  whose  dreams  not 
only  come  true  but  surpass  themselves.  His  dreams  had 
been  only  shabby  travesties  of  the  reality.  He  recalled  the 
subtle  fragrance  of  her  hair,  the  flash  of  her  amber  eyes,  the 
sensuous  delicacy  and  softness  of  her  limbs  and  bosom,  the 
melodious  timbre  of  her  voice.  And  he  paused  longer  than 
usual  as  he  reflected  with  sudden  amazement  that  she  was 
his  for  the  taking.  The  taking!  How  deliciously  mysterious 
she  had  been  as  she  made  it  clear  he  must  take  her  away,  far 
away,  where  nobody  knew  who  she  was,  where  they  could  be 
happy  for  ever  together!  How  she  had  played  upon  the 
strong  chords  of  his  heart  as  she  spoke  of  her  despair,  her 
lonehness,  her  conviction  that  she  was  destined  for  ill  fortune ! 
She  injected  a  strange  strain  of  tragic  intensity  into  the 
voluptuous  abandon  of  her  voice.  She  evoked  emotions 
tinged  with  a  kind  of  savage  and  primitive  religious  mania  as 
she  lay  in  his  arms  in  the  scented  darkness  of  that  garden  and 

160 


COMMAND  161' 

whispered  in  her  sweet  twittering  tones  her  romantic  desires. 
And  the  thought  that  she  was  even  now  lying  asleep  in 
another  room,  the  morning  sun  filtering  through  green  shut- 
ters and  filling  the  chamber  with  the  lambent  glittering 
beam-shot  twilight  of  a  submarine  grotto,  was  like  strong 
wine  in  his  veins.  She  depended  on  him,  and  he  was  almost 
afraid  of  the  violence  of  the  emotion  she  stirred  in  him.  She 
had  touched,  with  the  unerring  instinct  of  a  clever  woman, 
his  imagination,  his  masculine  pride  and  the  profound  senti- 
mentalism  of  his  race  towards  her  sex.  She  revealed  to  him 
a  phase  in  her  character  so  inexpressibly  lovely  and  alluring 
that  he  was  in  a  trance.  She  inspired  in  him  visions  of  a 
future  where  he  would  always  love  and  she  be  fair.  Indeed, 
Mr.  Spokesly's  romantic  illusions  were  founded  on  fact. 
Evanthia  Solaris  was  possessed  of  a  beauty  and  character 
almost  indestructible.  She  was  preeminently  fitted  to  sur- 
vive the  innumerable  casualties  of  modern  life.  She  was  a 
type  that  Ada  Rivers,  for  example,  would  not  believe  in  at  all, 
for  girls  like  Ada  Rivers  are  either  Christian  or  Hebrew, 
whereas  Evanthia  Solaris  was  neither,  but  possessed  the 
calculating  sagacity  of  a  pagan  oracle.  Such  a  catastrophe 
as  the  departure  of  the  consuls  had  enraged  her  for  a  time, 
and  then  she  had  subsided  deep  into  her  usual  mysterious 
mood.  So  his  illusions  were  founded  on  fact.  She  could  give 
him  everything  he  dreamed  of,  leaving  him  with  imperishable 
memories,  and  passing  on  with  unimpaired  vitality  to  ad- 
ventures beyond  his  horizon.  There  was  nothing  illogical  in 
this.  Being  an  adventuress  is  not  so  very  different  from 
being  an  adventurer.  One  goes  into  it  because  one  has  the 
temperament  and  the  desire  for  adventure.  And  Evanthia 
was  by  heredity  an  adventuress.  Her  father  belonged  to 
that  little-known  and  completely  misunderstood  fraternity — 
the  comitadji  of  the  Balkans.  It  is  not  yet  comprehended  by 
the  western  nations  that  to  a  large  section  of  these  south- 
eastern people  civilization  is  a  disagreeable  inconvenience. 
They  regard  the  dwellers  in  towns  with  contempt,  descending 
upon  them  in  sudden  raids  when  the  snows  melt,  and  return- 
ing to  their  mountain  fortresses  laden  with  booty  and  some- 


162  COMMAND 

times  with  hostages.  They  maintain  within  political  frontiers 
empires  of  their  own,  defying  laws  and  defeating  with  ease 
the  police-bands  who  are  sent  to  apprehend  them.  They 
have  no  virtues  save  courage  and  occasionally  fidelity  and  no 
ideals  save  the  acquisition  of  spoil.  They  invariably  draw  to 
themselves  the  high-spirited  youths  of  the  towns;  and  the 
girls,  offered  the  choice  of  drudging  poverty  or  the  protection 
of  a  farmer  of  taxes,  are  sometimes  discovered  to  have  gone 
away  during  the  excitement  of  a  midnight  foray.  So  had 
Evanthia's  mother,  a  lazy,  lion-hearted  baggage  of  Petritch 
whose  parents  had  breathed  more  easily  when  they  were  free 
at  last  from  her  incessant  demands  and  gusts  of  rage.  But 
the  man  who  had  carried  her  off  into  the  mountains  was  near- 
ing  the  end  of  his  predatory  career,  and  very  soon  (for  he  had 
no  enemies,  having  killed  them  all)  he  was  able  to  purchase 
a  franchise  from  the  Government  and  turn  tax-farmer  him- 
self. He  was  so  successful  that  he  became  a  rich  man, 
and  the  family,  fighting  every  inch  of  the  way,  took  a  villa  in 
Pera.  It  was  there  Evanthia  was  educated  in  the  manner 
peculiar  to  that  part  of  the  world.  When  she  was  eighteen 
she  could  make  fine  lace,  cook,  fight,  and  speak  six  languages 
without  being  able  to  write  or  read  any  at  all.  The  villa  in 
which  they  lived  was  for  ever  in  an  uproar,  for  all  three  gave 
battle  on  the  smallest  pretext.  They  lived  precisely  as  the 
beasts  in  the  jungle  live — diversifying  their  periods  of  torpor 
with  bursts  of  frantic  vituperation  and  syncopating  enjoy- 
ment. Neither  European  nor  Asiatic,  they  maintained  an 
uneasy  balance  on  the  shores  of  the  Bosphorus  between  the 
two,  until  Evanthia's  mother,  a  vigorous,  handsome  brunette 
trembling  with  half -understood  longings  and  frustrated  am- 
bitions in  spite  of  her  life  of  animal  indolence,  suddenly 
ran  away  and  took  her  daughter  with  her.  She  had  fallen  in 
love  with  a  Greek  whom  she  had  met  in  Constantinople,  a 
man  of  forceful  personality,  enormous  moustaches,  and  no 
education,  who  was  selling  the  tobacco  crop  from  his  estate  in 
Macedonia.  Evanthia's  father,  now  a  man  of  nearly  sixty, 
did  not  follow  them.  He  suffered  a  paroxysm  of  rage,  broke 
some  furniture,  and  made  furious  preparations  for  a  pursuit, 


COMMAND  163 

when  one  of  the  servants,  a  tall,  cool  Circassian  girl  with  pale 
brown  eyes  and  an  extraordinarily  lovely  figure,  broke  in 
upon  his  frenzy  and  told  him  an  elaborate  story  of  how  his 
wife  had  really  gone  to  France,  where  she  had  previously  sent 
a  sum  of  money,  and  how  she  herself  had  been  implored  to  go 
with  them  but  had  refused  to  desert  her  master.  It  was 
quite  untrue,  and  took  its  origin  from  the  French  novels  she 
had  stolen  from  her  mistress  and  read  in  bed;  but  it  hit  the 
mark  with  the  man  whose  only  domestic  virtue  was  fidelity. 
And  the  Circassian  creature  made  him  an  admirable  com- 
panion, ruling  the  villa  with  a  rod  of  iron,  inaugurating  an 
era  of  peace  which  the  old  gentleman  had  never  experienced 
in  his  life. 

Evanthia  had  to  adjust  herself  to  new  and  startling  con- 
ditions. The  swart  Hellene  stood  no  nonsense  from  his 
handsome  mistress.  He  beat  her  every  day,  on  the  principle 
that  if  she  had  not  done  anything  she  was  going  to  do  some- 
thing. When  Evanthia  began  her  tantrums  he  tried  to  beat 
her,  too,  but  she  showed  so  ugly  a  dexterity  with  a  knife  that 
he  desisted  and  decided  to  starve  her  out.  He  cheerfully 
gave  her  money  to  run  away  to  Saloniki,  laughing  harshly 
when  she  announced  her  intention  of  working  for  a  living  as 
a  seamstress.  She  arrived  in  Saloniki  to  hear  -stirring 
news.  She  was  about  to  enter  a  carriage  to  drive  to  the  house 
of  a  friend  of  the  Hellene,  a  gentleman  named  Dainopoulos, 
when  a  young  man  with  glorious  blond  hair  and  little  golden 
moustache,  his  blue  eyes  wide  open  and  very  anxious,  almost 
pushed  her  away  and  got  in,  giving  the  driver  an  address. 
This  was  the  beginning  of  her  adventures.  The  young  man 
explained  the  extreme  urgency  of  his  business,  offered  to  do 
anything  in  his  power  if  she  would  let  him  have  the  carriage  at 
once.  She  got  in  with  him,  and  he  told  her  his  news  breath- 
lessly :  War.  It  seemed  a  formidable  thing  to  him.  To  her, 
life  was  war.  She  had  no  knowledge  of  what  war  meant  to 
him  in  his  country.  To  her  London,  Berlin,  Paris  were 
replicas  of  Constantinople,  cosmopolitan  rookeries  where  one 
could  meet  interesting  men.  Saloniki  immediately  became  a 
charming  place  for  Evanthia  Solaris.    The  young  man  Tras 


164  COMMAND 

the  vice-consul.  His  father  was  a  wealthy  ship-chandler  at 
Stettin,  and  he  himself  had  been  everywhere.  It  was  he  who 
first  confirmed  her  vague  gropings  after  what  one  might  call, 
for  want  of  a  better  word,  gentility.  She  was  shrewd  enough 
to  suspect  that  the  crude  and  disorderly  squabbling  in  the 
Pera  villa,  or  the  grotesque  bullying  on  the  tobacco  plan- 
tation, were  not  the  highest  manifestations  of  human  culture. 
As  has  been  hinted,  she  was  sure  there  were  people  in  the 
world  who  lived  lives  of  virtuous  ease,  as  opposed  to  what  she 
had  been  accustomed.  Their  existence  was  confirmed  by 
her  new  friend.  He  was  the  first  man  she  had  liked.  Later 
she  became  infatuated  with  him.  In  between  these  two 
periods  she  learned  to  love  someone  in  the  world  besides  her- 
self. 

It  would  not  do  to  say  that  she,  in  her  barbaric  simplicity, 
assumed  that  all  Englishwomen  lay  on  their  backs  and  had 
angelic  tempers.  But  she  did  arrive  at  a  characteristically 
ecstatic  conclusion  about  Mrs.  Dainopoulos.  That  lady  was 
so  obviously,  so  romantically  genteel  that  Evanthia  some- 
times wanted  to  barter  her  own  superb  vitality  for  some  such 
destiny.  She  never  considered  for  a  moment,  until  she  met 
Mr.  Spokesly,  the  chances  of  being  adored  as  Mr.  Daino- 
poulos adored  his  wife.  She  knew  Mr.  Dainopoulos  would 
never  dream  of  adoring  a  woman  like  herself.  She  regarded 
him  with  dislike  because  he  betrayed  no  curiosity  about  her- 
self and  because  he  obviously  knew  too  much  to  be  hood- 
winked by  her  arts.  He  even  ignored  her  rather  amusing 
swagger  when  she  paraded  her  new  acquisition,  a  handsome 
vice-consul.  She  knew  he  would  not  have  tolerated  her  at 
all  had  not  his  wife  expressed  a  desire  to  have  her  remain. 
Mrs.  Dainopoulos  had  no  intention  of  countenancing  evil; 
but  she  had  been  humane  enough  to  see,  when  Evanthia  told 
her  story,  how  impossible  it  was  for  a  girl  with  such  a  child- 
hood to  have  the  remotest  conception  of  Western  ideals. 
Mrs.  Dainopoulos,  in  fact,  belonged  to  the  numerous  class  of 
people  in  England  who  manage  "to  make  allowances,"  as 
they  call  it,  for  others.  And  possibly,  too,  Evanthia,  with 
her  bizarre  history  and  magical  personality,  possibly  even 


COMMAND  165 

her  naive  assumption  that  she  was  destined  to  be  mistress 
of  men,  appealed  to  the  Enghshwoman's  flair  for  romance. 
Evanthia,  contrasted  with  Haverstock  Hill,  was  wonderful. 
And  to  Evanthia,  the  victim  of  sudden  little  spurts  of  girlish 
posing,  pathetic  strivings  after  an  imaginary  western  self, 
the  invalid  woman  was  a  sympathetic  angel.  She  never 
laughed  when  Evanthia  pretended  an  absurd  lofty  patriotism 
or  inaugurated  a  season  of  ridiculous  religious  observances, 
dressing  in  white  and  holding  a  crucifix  to  her  breast.  She 
did  not  deride  Evanthia 's  remarkable  travesty  of  English 
dress,  or  Evanthia's  embarrassing  concoctions  in  the  kitchen. 
These  gusts  of  enthusiasm  died  out,  and  the  real  Evanthia 
emerged  again,  a  velvet-soft  being  of  sex  and  sinuous  deli- 
cacy, of  no  country  and  no  creed,  at  home  in  the  world,  a 
thing  of  indestructible  loveliness  and  problematic  utility. 

And  now,  while  Mr.  Spokesly  stood  at  his  window  gently 
rubbing  his  chin  and  looking  down  into  the  dew-drenched 
garden,  Evanthia  was  lying  in  another  room,  smoking  a 
cigarette  and  meditating.  She  had  a  very  astute  and  clearly 
defined  plan  in  her  mind,  and  she  lay  thinking  how  it  could 
be  carried  out.  Unhampered  by  so  many  of  our  modern 
educational  distractions  and  complexes,  her  mental  processes 
would  have  exacted  the  admiration  of  the  London  School  of 
IVInemonics.  The  apparent  impossibility  of  leaving  Saloniki 
and  reaching  Constantinople  meant  nothing  at  all  to  her.  It 
had  always  been  an  almost  impossible  task  to  go  anywhere  if 
one  were  a  woman.  Women,  in  her  experience,  were  like 
expensive  automobiles.  They  were  always  owned  by  some- 
body, who  drove  them  about  and  sometimes  ill-treated  them 
and  even  rode  them  to  destruction,  and  who  lost  them  if  they 
were  not  carefully  guarded.  Moreover,  the  parallel,  in  her 
experience,  went  farther,  because  she  observed  that  nobody 
ever  thought  less  of  them  because  they  were  costly  to  run. 
Evanthia  was  now  like  an  ownerless  machine  of  which  no  one 
perceived  the  value  or  knew  how  to  start.  She  had  been 
getting  accustomed  to  the  notion  that  independence  had  its 
pleasures  and  defects.  She  lay  thinking  with  quiet  eflBciency, 
until  her  cigarette  was  burned  down,  and  then  suddenly 


166  COMMAND 

sprang  out  of  bed.  With  extraordinary  speed  and  quietness, 
she  rolled  up  her  great  masses  of  black  hair,  slipped  into  a 
yellow  kimono  and  Turkish  slippers,  and  went  downstairs. 
The  contrast  between  her  pose,  with  nothing  save  the  slow 
curl  of  smoke  coming  from  the  deep  pillow  to  show  she  was 
alive,  and  the  sharp  vitality  of  her  movements  in  the  kitchen, 
was  characteristic.  She  could  not  help  doing  things  in  a 
theatrical  way.  Mr.  Dainopoulos  was  much  nearer  the  mark 
than  even  he  knew,  when  he  said  in  his  caustic  way  that 
Evanthia  imagined  herself  a  queen.  There  were  times  when 
she  thought  she  was  an  empress  walking  down  ivory  stair- 
cases strewn  with  slaughtered  slaves.  She  had  a  way  of 
striding  to  the  door  when  she  was  angry  and  turning  suddenly 
upon  him,  her  head  lowered,  her  amber  eyes  full  of  a  lambent, 
vengeful  glare.  Mr.  Dainopoulos  would  remain  as  impassive 
as  a  dummy  under  this  exhibition  of  temperament,  but  his 
attitude  was  artistically  correct.  She  might  be  exasperated 
with  him,  but  she  really  regarded  him  as  a  dummy.  He 
represented  the  cowed  and  terror-stricken  vassal  shrinking 
from  the  imperial  anger.  And  now  she  moved  in  a  majestic 
way  here  and  there  in  the  great  stone  kitchen,  making  black 
c»ffee  and  spooning  out  some  preserved  green  figs  into  a 
plated  dish.  This  she  arranged  on  a  tray.  In  imagination 
she  was  a  great  lady,  a  grand-duchess  perhaps,  taking  refresh- 
ment to  a  secret  lover.  She  loved  to  figure  herself  in  these 
fantastic  roles,  the  roles  she  had  seen  so  often  at  the  cinemas. 
The  exaggerated  gestures  and  graphic  emotions  came  natu- 
rally to  a  girl  at  once  theatrical  and  illiterate.  She  walked 
away  with  the  tray  in  her  hand,  ascending  the  stairs  as  though 
rehearsing  an  entrance,  and  stood  stock  still  outside  Mr. 
Spokesly's  door,  listening. 

Mr.  Spokesly  was  listening,  too.  He  had  heard  the  slip- 
slop of  the  loose  slippers,  the  tinkle  of  spoon  against  china, 
and  then  a  faint  tap.  He  went  over  to  the  door  and  pulled 
it  open. 

"You!"  he  said,  with  a  thrill.  He  could  not  have  said  a 
word  more  just  then.  She  smiled  and  held  a  finger  to  pursed 
lips  to  enjoin  silence.    He  stood  looking  at  her,  hypnotized. 


COMMAND  167 

"Drink  coffee  with  me?"  she  whispered  sweetly,  holding 
up  the  tray.  And  then  she  moved  on  along  the  passage, 
looking  back  over  her  shoulder  at  him  with  that  smile  which 
is  as  old  as  the  world,  the  first  finished  masterpiece  of  un- 
conscious art. 

She  led  the  way  to  a  darkened  room,  set  the  tray  down,  and 
pushed  the  green  shutters  away,  revealing  a  wooden  balcony 
with  chairs  and  a  green  iron  table.  Below,  in  the  hush  of 
early  morning,  lay  the  road,  and  beyond  the  trees  and  houses 
that  followed  the  shore  they  could  see  the  Gulf,  now  streaked 
and  splotched  with  green  and  gray  and  rose.  The  early 
morning,  charged  with  the  undissipated  emotions  of  the 
night,  is  a  far  more  beautiful  hour  than  the  evening.  To 
Evanthia,  however,  who  had  always  dwelt  amid  scenes  of 
extravagant  natural  beauty,  this  exquisite  sunrise,  viewed  as 
it  were  in  violet  shadow,  the  invisible  sun  tingeing  the  snow 
of  the  distant  peaks  with  delicate  shell-pink  and  ivory- 
white,  the  vessels  in  the  roadstead  almost  translucent  pearl  in 
the  mist,  the  shore  line  a  bar  of  solid  black  until  it  rose 
ominously  in  the  sullen  headland  of  Karaburun — all  this  was 
nothing.  To  Mr.  Spokesly  it  was  a  great  deal.  It  became  to 
him  a  memory  alluring  and  unforgettable.  It  was  a  frame 
for  a  picture  which  he  bore  with  him  through  the  years,  a. 
picture  of  himself  on  a  balcony,  listening  to  a  girl  in  a  yellow 
kimono  while  she  whispered  and  whispered  and  then  sat  back 
in  her  chair  and  raised  her  cup  to  drink,  looking  at  him  over 
the  rim  of  it  with  her  brilliant  amber  eyes. 

"I  don't  know  as  it  can  be  done,"  he  muttered,  shaking  his 
head  slightly,  gulping  the  coffee  and  setting  the  cup  on  the 
table.     "Not  so  easy,  I'm  afraid." 

"  You  can  do  it,"  she  whispered  imperiously. 

"S'pose  you  get  caught?"  he  replied  cautiously.  She 
waved  a  hand  and  shrugged. 

**  N'importe.  C'est  la  guerre.  That  don't  matter.  You 
can  do  it,  eh?" 

Mr.  Spokesly  rubbed  his  chin. 

"I  don't  say  I  can  and  I  don't  say  I  can't.  He  might  be 
able  to  get  you  down  there  as  a  passenger." 


168  COMMAND 

She  shook  her  head  vigorously,  and  leaned  over  the  table, 
touching  it  with  her  long  filbert  nails. 

"No!"  she  said.  "He  says  *no  good.*  Nobody  allowed 
to  go  Phyros,  nobody  to  Alexandria.  Nobody.  You  under- 
stand?" 

He  looked  at  her  as  she  leaned  against  the  table  and  then 
his  gaze  dropped  to  where  the  yellow  wrap  had  opened  so  that 
he  could  see  her  bosom,  and  he  felt  a  dizziness  as  he  looked 
away.  It  was  characteristic  of  Evanthia  that  she  made  no 
sudden  gesture  of  modesty.  She  leaned  there,  her  white 
throat  and  breast  lifting  evenly  as  she  breathed,  awaiting  his 
answer. 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  he  answered,  looking  out  to  where 
the  Kalkis  was  emerging  from  the  distant  haze.  "But  what 
I  don't  see  is  why  you  want  to  do  it." 

"I  want  to  go  wis  you,"  she  whispered  sharply,  and  he 
looked  at  her  again  to  find  her  gazing  at  him  sternly,  her 
finger  on  her  lips. 

And  Mr.  Spokesly  suddenly  had  an  inspiration.  Here  he 
was  again,  mewing  like  a  kitten  for  somebody  to  come  and 
open  the  door,  instead  of  taking  hold  and  mastering  the 
situation.  He  took  a  deep  breath,  and  lit  a  cigarette.  He 
must  play  up  to  this.  No  good  fooling  about.  In  for  a 
penny,  in  for  a  pound.  Could  it  be  managed  .^^  He  decided 
it  could.  It  was  evident  Mr.  Dainopoulos  knew  something 
about  it  but  had  no  intention  of  taking  an  active  part  in  the 
adventure.  Mr.  Spokesly  realized  he  himself  had  no  notion 
where  the  Kalkis  was  going  after  discharging  in  Phyros.  It 
seemed  Evanthia  did,  or  had  some  notion  of  it.  Yes,  it  could 
be  managed.  His  hand  closed  over  hers  as  it  lay  on  the 
table. 

"I'll  fix  everything,"  he  said.  "You  be  ready  and  I'll  do 
the  rest." 

Her  face  grew  radiant.  She  became  herself  again — a 
woman  who  had  got  what  she  wanted.  She  rose  and  stroked 
his  hair  gently  as  she  bent  over  him. 

"Now  I  get  some  breakfast,  mon  cher,''  she  twittered 
sweetly.     "You  stop  here.     I  call  you."    And  with  a  soft. 


COMMAND  169 

sibilant  flip-flop  of  her  heelless  slippers,  which  showed  her  own 
pink  heels  and  delicate  ankles,  she  disappeared. 

And  Mr.  Spokesly,  who  had  come  home  from  distant 
places  to  join  the  forces,  who  had  become  engaged  in  an 
exemplary  way  to  a  girl  who  was  now  wondering,  away  in 
beleaguered  England,  why  Reggie  didn't  write,  tilted  his 
chair  a  little  and  allowed  his  mind  to  go  forward.  When  he 
asked  himself  what  would  be  the  upshot  of  this  adventure, 
he  was  compelled  to  admit  that  he  didn't  know.  What 
startled  and  invigorated  him  was  that  he  didn't  care.  He  saw 
himself,  as  they  say,  on  deck  in  fine  weather,  a  full  moon  pour- 
ing her  glorious  radiance  down  upon  them,  and  Evanthia  be- 
side him  in  a  deck  chair  under  the  awning.  He  saw  himself 
in  some  distant  harbour,  after  much  toil  and  anxiety,  sitting 
at  cafes  with  bands  playing  and  Evanthia  in  that  corn- 
coloured  dress  with  an  enormous  black  hat.  And  then  his 
thoughts  went  so  far  forward  that  they  lost  coherence  and  he 
grew  dizzy  again.  His  chair  was  tilted  back  against  the  opened 
jalousie  and  he  stared  with  unseeing  eyes  across  the  glit- 
tering water.  It  was  the  dream  he  had  had  before,  on  the 
Tanganyikay  only  a  little  clearer,  a  little  nearer.  They  were 
dead,  while  he  was  alive.  There  you  had  it.  Perhaps  in  a 
little  while  he,  too,  would  be  dead — a  bomb,  a  shell,  a  bullet — 
and  the  dreams  would  be  for  others  while  he  joined  that  great 
army  of  silent  shades.  Why  had  he  never  seen  the  simplicity 
of  it  before?  This  was  the  mood  for  adventure.  You  forgot 
the  others  and  went  right  on,  getting  the  things  that  are  yours 
for  the  taking,  never  counting  the  cost,  finding  your  dreams 
come  true.     .     .     . 

Then  you  went  back  to  beleaguered  England,  and  Ada 
would  be  there,  waiting. 

And  then,  as  he  sat  there,  he  came  slowly  back  to  the 
present  and  saw  that  the  Kalkis  was  moving.  He  saw  steam 
jetting  from  the  forecastle  and  that  told  him  they  were  heav- 
ing up  the  anchor.  An  obsolete  old  ship,  he  reflected,  with 
the  exhaust  from  the  windlass  blinding  everybody  and  mak- 
ing it  difficult  to  see  the  bridge.    The  Kalkis  began  to  move. 

Now  she  had  way  on  and  was  turning  towards  him.     Com- 


170  COMMAND 

ing  in  to  a  new  berth,  Mr.  Spokesly  noted.  He  rose,  and 
Mr.  Dainopoulos  appeared  at  the  door  leading  to  the  balcony. 

"You  all  right,  eh?**  he  inquired,  and  seeing  the  empty 
cups  made  a  peculiar  grimace.     He  pointed  to  the  Kalkis. 

"You  got  a  new  berth .^"  said  Mr.  Spokesly. 

"  Yeh.  Over  here,**  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos.  "  It's  the  best 
we  can  get  just  now.  No  room  inside.  Now,*'  he  went  on, 
"  You  got  to  go  on  board,  see,  and  have  a  look  round.  There *s 
two  hundred  ton  to  be  loaded  quick,  but  I  think  her  winches, 
they  ain't  very  good.  You  let  me  know.  The  captain,  he 
talk  plenty  about  new  winches.  Where  do  I  get  new  winches, 
eh?    I  ask  you,  where  do  I  get  'em,  out  here?" 

This  time,  when  called,  Mr.  Spokesly  was  ready. 

"We'll  get  her  loaded,"  he  said.  "If  it's  all  light  general 
we  can  do  it,  winches  or  no  winches.  Is  the  other  mate 
finished?" 

"Just  about.    He  don't  get  any  more  pay,  anyhow." 

Evanthia  suddenly  came  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  room 
and  looked  at  them  in  a  theatrical  way,  as  though  she  were 
about  to  begin  a  big  scene  and  was  waiting  for  her  cue  from 
the  rear. 

"Breakfast,"  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  upon  whom  this  sort 
of  histrionics  was  lost,  and  they  went  down  to  a  room  on  the 
ground  floor,  a  room  that  was  full  of  moving  green  shadows 
and  pale  green  beams  as  the  dense  foliage  of  the  garden 
swayed  in  the  breeze.  It  was  like  sitting  in  a  recess  at  the 
bottom  of  the  sea.  The  slim  girl  with  the  contemptuously 
taciturn  expression  was  laying  the  table. 

"My  wife,  she  don*t  come  down,"  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos, 
devouring  lamb  stew.  They  might  have  been  in  the  break- 
fast room  of  a  home  in  Haverstock  Hill.  Only  the  figure  of 
Evanthia  hissing  incomprehensible  commands  into  the  ears 
of  the  sullen  young  girl,  who  stared  at  Mr.  Spokesly  and 
moved  unwillingly  into  the  kitchen,  recalled  the  adventure 
behind  this  little  scene.  On  the  walls  were  enlarged  photo- 
graphs of  the  father  and  mother  of  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  life-size 
coloured  prints  in  gold  frames  that  were  enclosed  in  an  outer 
glass  case  on  account  of  flies.     The  furniture  had  come,  at 


COMMAND  m 

his  wife's  order,  from  Tottenham  Court  Road,  and  was  a 
glossy  walnut  with  dark  green  plush.  A  giant  dresser  of 
black  Anatolian  oak  which  stood  against  one  wall  bore  on  its 
broad  shelves  a  couple  of  blue  and  green  and  yellow  Ar- 
menian vases  and  a  great  shining  copper  tray  like  an  ancient 
shield.  Across  this  shield  the  green  sunlight  wavered  and 
shook  so  that  even  Mr.  Dainopoulos  allowed  his  eye  to  rest 
on  it.  He  wanted  to  get  rid  of  that  dresser  and  buy  one  of 
those  white  kitchen  cabinets  he  saw  in  advertisements.  He 
did  not  know  furniture,  strange  to  say,  or  he  would  have 
asked  an  extremely  high  price  for  his  dresser.  He  sat  looking 
at  the  light  playing  on  the  copper  shield,  which  sent  it  flying 
back  in  a  fairy  flicker  athwart  the  ceiling,  which  was  dark 
brown  and  riven  with  huge  cracks,  and  doing  a  little  posing 
on  his  account. 

"My  wife  she  don't  come  down,"  he  said.  It  reminded 
him  of  something  he  had  been  going  to  tell  Mr.  Spokesly  that 
first  night  and  his  wife  had  stopped  him.  Why  did  she 
always  do  that?  Always  there  was  something  about  the 
English  he  couldn't  follow.  He  went  on  with  his  lamb  stew, 
noisily  enjoying  it,  and  pretending  he  did  not  see  Evanthia's 
rehearsal  of  one  of  her  favourite  poses,  a  great  madama 
dispensing  hospitality  to  her  guests  in  the  morning  room  of 
her  chdteau, 

"I  met  a  major  yesterday,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  "in  the 
Olympos.  He  said  he  wanted  me  to  go  and  see  him  about 
the  cargo." 

"Eh!"    Mr.  Dainopoulos  stared,  knife  and  fork  raised. 

"Oh,  I  fancy  he  just  wants  to  give  us  a  few  hints  about  the 
discharging  in  Phyros." 

"He  can  do  that,"  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  letting  his  hands 
fall  to  the  table.  "He  can  do  that.  Yes,"  he  went  on,  seeing 
the  possibilities  of  the  thing,  "you  go  along  and  tell  him 
you'll  attend  to  it  all  yourself,  see?  You  Ss.  him.  The 
captain,  he  don't  like  government  peoples." 

"Ill  go  this  morning,  after  I've  got  some  gear." 

"It  ain't  a  very  long  voyage  to  Phyros,"  said  his  em- 
ployer. 


172  COMMAND 

"Where  do  we  go,  from  Phyros?"  asked  Mr.  Spokesly. 

"To  Piraeus  for  orders,"  said  the  other  quickly.  Mr. 
Spokesly  could  not  help  glancing  at  Evanthia,  who  regarded 
him  steadily. 

"  I  see,"  he  said.  Pirseus  was  the  port  of  Athens.  Athens, 
just  then,  was  a  pecuHar  place,  like  Saloniki.     So  that  was  it. 

"Captain  Rannie  said  he  didn't  know,"  he  observed.  Mr. 
Dainopoulos  grunted. 

"Perhaps  he  didn't  know,  when  you  ask  him.  I  think  I 
got  a  charter,  but  I  ain't  sure.     I  take  a  chance,  that's  all." 

After  they  had  finished  and  as  he  was  waiting  for  Mr. 
Dainopoulos,  he  saw  Evanthia  in  the  garden,  an  apron  over 
her  pink  cotton  dress,  smoking  a  cigarette. 

"So  it's  Athens  you  want,"  he  said,  smiling.  She  put  her 
finger  to  her  lips. 

"By  and  by,  you  will  see,"  she  said  and  led  him  away 
down  among  the  trees.  She  pulled  his  head  down  with  a 
gesture  he  grew  to  know  well,  and  whispered  rapidly  in  his 
ear.  And  then  pushed  him  away  and  hurried  off  to  look  for 
eggs  in  the  chicken-house.  He  joined  Mr.  Dainopoulos  in  a 
thoughtful  mood,  more  than  ever  convinced  that  women 
were,  as  he  put  it,  queer.  He  was  so  preoccupied  that  he 
did  not  notice  the  lack  of  originality  in  this  conclusion. 

Mr.  Dainopoulos  was  thoughtful,  too,  as  they  made  their 
way  into  the  city  and  he  opened  his  office.  He  was  in  a 
difficulty  because  he  did  not  know  how  far  Mr.  Spokesly, 
being  an  Englishman,  could  be  trusted  with  the  facts.  He 
was  perfectly  well  aware  of  the  difference  between  doing  a 
little  business  in  hashish,  which  destroyed  the  soldiers  in 
Egypt  body  and  soul,  and  an  enterprise  such  as  he  had  in 
mind.  What  would  be  Mr.  Spokesly 's  attitude  after  his 
interview  with  the  major,  and  after  getting  away  to  sea? 
He  had  said  he  was  taking  a  chance  of  a  cargo.  This  was 
scarcely  true;  but  he  was  taking  a  chance  in  sending  Mr. 
Spokesly  out  ignorant  of  what  was  in  store  for  him.  But  he 
decided  to  do  it.  He  decided  to  make  that  drug-rotted  old 
captain  of  his  earn  his  salt.  He  would  let  Captain  Rannie 
tefl  Mr.  Spokesly  after  they  were  at  sea.     Scraping  his  chin 


COMMAND  173 

with  his  fingernail  as  he  stood  in  front  of  his  big  safe,  Mr. 
Dainopoulos  felt  sure  that,  out  at  sea,  there  would  be  no 
trouble.  Then  he  opened  his  safe.  He  would  make  sure. 
The  major  had  his  own  personal  influence,  no  doubt;  and  it 
would  be  a  powerful  one  if  he  exercised  it.  Mr.  Dainopoulos 
could  imagine  him  engaging  Mr.  Spokesly's  interest  tre- 
mendously with  the  story  of  those  men  waiting  for  their 
stores  in  Phyros.  He  took  out  a  cash-box,  and  closing  the 
safe  went  back  to  his  desk. 

"Listen  here.  Mister,"  he  said,  and  suddenly  broke  off  to 
wave  away  the  young  Jew,  who  was  gazing  in  upon  them  with 
eyes  enlarged  and  charged  with  pathos.  "Listen  here,"  he 
went  on  when  the  youth  had  vanished  like  a  wraith.  "I 
want  to  fix  you  so  you'll  be  all  right  if  anything  happens,  you 
understand.  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  the  Government  take 
the  Kalkis  when  she  get  to  Piraeus — plenty  trouble  now  in 
Piraeus — ^and  you  gotta  come  back  here.  So  I  pay  you  six 
months  now.     You  give  me  a  receipt  for  six  months'  pay." 

"What  for?"  demanded  Mr.  Spokesly,  astonished. 

"You  understand,  easy  to  cover  risks  with  underwriter, 
yes.  But  s'pose  I  buy  another  ship  and  I  got  no  captain. 
See?" 

Something  told  Mr.  Spokesly,  though  he  did  not  under- 
stand at  all,  that  money  was  money.  The  man  was  straight 
anyhow,  he  thought,  taking  the  pen.  He'd  watch  that  old 
Rannie  didn't  try  any  monkey  tricks.  Very  decent  of  him. 
He  signed.  He  took  the  money  in  large,  blue  and  purple 
denominations,  crisp,  crackling,  delicious. 

"And  you  don't  forget,"  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  turning 
towards  the  safe  again.  "By  and  by  I'll  have  some  more 
business,  big  business,  and  you'll  get  a  big  piece  o'  money  if 
you  work  in  with  me.  When  you  come  back,  eh?  Out  here, 
plenty  business  but  nobody  honest,  to  manage."  He  paused, 
looking  down  at  the  floor,  hampered  by  his  deficient  English 
to  explain  what  he  meant.  He  was  rather  moved,  too,  be- 
cause he  saw,  right  there  in  his  own  continuing  city,  oppor- 
tunities for  business  undreamed  of  by  the  taU  blond  oflBcers  in 
their  shining  brown  harness  down  at  headquarters.     He  saw 


174  COMMAND 

buildings  going  up  which  would  be  sold  for  a  song,  a  floating 
dock  which  might  be  acquired  for  a  purely  nominal  sum 
when  the  war  was  over.  He  saw  jetties  and  rolUng-stock  and 
launches  which  would  be  sold  at  hurried  auctions  for  knock- 
down prices,  a  score  at  a  time.  But  one  must  have  some- 
body one  can  trust,  a  partner  or  a  manager.  Mr.  Daino- 
poulos  wanted  no  partners.  His  temperament  was  to  feel  his 
way  along  alone,  making  sudden  rushes  at  his  objective  or 
sitting  down  to  wait.  A  partner  was  of  no  use  to  him.  But 
he  figured  that  someone  like  Mr.  Spokesly  would  be  of  great 
assistance  in  his  business  as  he  planned  it  later. 

He  put  his  cash-box  away,  slammed  his  safe  shut,  and 
began  to  open  his  shop  for  his  ostensible  business  of  money- 
changing. 

"Now  you  get  out  to  the  ship  as  soon  as  you  got  your 
gear,"  he  said,  "and  that  young  feller  '11  go  with  you  in  the 
boat." 

Mr.  Spokesly  was  startled  to  see  how  close  the  KaUds  was  in 
shore,  opposite  the  house.  Without  a  glass  he  could  see  the 
balcony  and  the  window  within  which  Mrs.  Dainopoulos  lay 
watching  the  sunlight  on  the  sea.  As  he  came  nearer  to  the 
ship,  however,  sitting  in  the  row  boat  with  the  trembling 
young  Hebrew  beside  him,  he  became  preoccupied  with  her 
lines.  And  indeed  to  a  seafaring  man  the  Kalhis  was  a 
problem.  She  resembled  nothing  so  much  as  the  broken- 
down  blood  animal  whom  one  discovers  hauling  a  cab.  Mr. 
Spokesly  could  see  she  had  been  a  yacht.  Her  once  tall 
masts  were  cut  to  stumps  and  a  smooth-rivetted  funnel  at  the 
same  graceful  rake  was  full  of  degrading  dinges.  A  singularly 
shapely  hull  carried  amidships  a  grotesque  abortion  in  the 
form  of  a  super-imposed  upper  bridge,  and  the  teak  deck 
forward  was  broken  by  a  square  hatchway.  All  the  scuttles 
along  her  sides,  once  gleaming  brass  and  crystal,  were  blind 
with  dead-lights  and  painted  over.  Another  hatch  had  been 
made  where  the  owner's  skylight  had  been  and  a  friction- 
winch  screamed  and  scuttered  on  the  once  spotless  poop. 
As  Mr.  Spokesly  once  phrased  it  later,  it  was  like  meeting 
some  girl,  whose  family  you  knew,  on  the  streets.     A  lighter 


COMMAND  175 

lay  alongside  loaded  with  sacks  and  cases,  and  the  friction- 
winch  shrieked  and  jerked  the  sling  into  the  air  as  a  gang  of 
frowzy  Greeks  hooked  them  on. 

They  came  round  her  bows  to  reach  the  gangway  and  Mr. 
Spokesly  gave  way  to  a  feeling  of  bitterness  for  a  moment  as 
he  looked  up  at  the  gracile  sprit  stem  from  which  some 
utilitarian  had  sawed  the  bowsprit  and  carefully  tacked  over 
the  stump  a  battered  piece  of  sheet-copper.  It  affected  him 
like  the  mutilation  of  a  beautiful  human  body.  What  tales 
she  could  tell!  Now  he  saw  the  mark  of  her  original  name 
showing  up  in  rows  of  puttied  screw-holes  on  the  flare  of  the 
bow.  Carmencita.  She  must  have  been  a  saucy  little  craft, 
her  snowy  gangway  picked  out  with  white  ropes  and  polished 
brass  stanchions.     And  now  only  a  dirty  ladder  hung  there. 

Leaving  the  little  Jew  to  get  up  as  best  he  could,  Mr. 
Spokesly  climbed  on  deck  and  strode  forward.  He  was 
curious  to  see  what  sort  of  mate  it  could  be  who  came  into 
port  with  a  ship  like  this.  His  professional  pride  was  nause- 
ated. He  kicked  a  bucket  half  full  of  potato  peeUngs  out  of 
the  doorway  and  entered  the  deck-house. 

Garlic,  stale  wine,  and  cold  suet  were  combined  with  a 
more  sinister  perfume  that  Mr.  Spokesly  knew  was  rats.  He 
looked  around  upon  a  scene  which  made  him  wonder.  It 
made  him  think  of  some  forecastles  he  had  lived  in  when  he 
was  a  seaman,  forecastles  on  Sunday  morning  after  a  Saturday 
night  ashore  on  the  Barbary  Coast  or  in  Newcastle,  New 
South  Wales.  It  was  the  saloon,  apparently,  and  the  break- 
fast had  not  been  cleared  away.  A  large  yellow  cat  was 
gnawing  at  a  slab  of  fish  he  had  dragged  from  the  table, 
bringing  most  of  the  cloth,  with  the  cruet,  after  him.  On 
the  settee  behind  the  table  lay  a  man  in  trousers  and  singlet, 
snoring.  He  was  wearing  red  silk  socks  full  of  holes,  and  a 
fly  crawled  along  his  full  red  lips  below  a  large  black  mous- 
tache. In  a  pantry  on  one  side  a  young  man  with  a  black 
moustache  and  in  a  blue  apron,  spotted  with  food,  was  smok- 
ing a  cigarette  and  wiping  some  dishes  with  an  almost  in- 
credibly dirty  cloth. 

"Where's  the  cap'en?"  demanded  Mr.  Spokesly  in  a  voice 


176  COMMAND 

so  harsh  and  aggressive  he  hardly  recognized  it  himself.  The 
young  man  came  out  wiping  his  hands  on  his  hips  and 
shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"Where's  the  mate?" 

The  young  man  pointed  at  the  figure  on  the  settee.  Mr. 
Spokesly  went  round  the  table  and  gave  the  recumbent 
gentleman  a  shake.  Uttering  a  choking  snort,  the  late  chief 
oflScer  opened  his  eyes,  sat  up,  and  looked  round  in  a  way 
that  proved  conclusively  he  had  no  clear  notion  of  his  lo- 
cality. Eventually  he  discovered  that  the  shakings  came 
from  a  total  stranger  and  he  focussed  a  full  stare  from  his 
black  eyes  upon  Mr.  Spokesly. 

"I'm  the  new  mate,"  said  the  latter.  "Where's  my 
cabin?" 

"  Ai!"  said  the  other,  staring,  both  hands  on  the  dirty  table- 
cloth.    "Ai!     You  gotta  nerve.     What  you  doin' here,  eh?" 

"All  right,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  "I'll  see  to  you  in  a  minute. 
Here,  you!  Where's  the  mate's  cabin,  savvy?  Room, 
cabin,  bunk." 

The  young  man,  wiping  his  hands  again  on  his  hips,  went 
over  to  an  opening  which  led  down  a  stairway  and  beckoned. 
Mr.  Spokesly  followed. 

What  he  found  was  very  much  of  a  piece  with  the  saloon. 
One  side  of  the  ship  was  occupied  by  a  large  room  marked 
"Captain."  On  the  other  side  were  two  cabins,  the  forward 
one  of  which  he  was  given  to  understand  was  his.  To  call 
it  a  pigsty  would  not  convey  any  conception  of  the  dire  dis- 
order of  it.  The  delicate  hardwood  panelling  of  the  yacht 
had  been  painted  over  with  a  thick  layer  of  greenish-white 
paint;  and  this  was  coated,  at  each  end  of  the  bunk,  with  a 
black  deposit  of  human  origin  where  the  oiled  head  and 
neglected  feet  of  the  late  incumbent  had  rubbed.  The  wal- 
nut table  was  marked  with  circles  where  hot  cups  had  been 
set  down,  and  the  edges  were  charred  by  cigarette-ends  left 
to  burn.  The  basin  was  cracked  and  half  full  of  black  water. 
Mr.  Spokesly  gave  one  glance  at  the  toilet  shelf  and  then 
turned  away  hastily  to  the  young  man,  who  was  watching 
him  in  some  curiosity. 


COMMAND  177 

"You  speak  English?"  he  was  asked  curtly. 

"Oh  yass,  I  spick  Ingleesh.     Plenty  Ingleesh." 

"Right.  Get  this  place  clean.  You  savvy?  Clean  all 
out.    Quick,  presto.     Savvy?" 

"Yass,  I  savvy." 

"Go  on  then." 

"I  finish  saloon.     .     .     ." 

"You  let  the  saloon  alone.     Clean  this  place  out  now." 

There  was  a  footfall  on  the  staircase  and  the  late  chief 
oflScer,  Csesare  Spiteri  by  name,  came  slowly  down,  holding 
by  the  hand-rail  fixed  over  the  door  of  the  alleyway.  There 
was  a  dull  smoulder  in  his  large  bloodshot  black  eyes  which 
seemed  to  bode  trouble.  He  came  forward,  elaborately 
oblivious  of  Mr.  Spokesly,  his  shoulders  hunched,  his  large 
hand  caressing  his  moustache.  He  spoke  rapidly  in  Greek 
to  the  nervous  steward,  who  began  to  edge  away. 

"Hi!"  called  Mr.  Spokesly.  "Do  what  I  tell  you.  See 
here,"  he  added  to  Mr.  Spiteri,  "you  finished  last  night,  I 
understand.  You  get  your  gear  out  of  this  and  get  away 
ashore." 

"  Yah !  Who  are  you?  "  snarled  Mr.  Spiteri  in  a  quiet  tone 
which  made  the  steward  more  nervous  than  ever. 

"I'm  mate  of  this  ship,  and  if  you  don't  get  out  in  five 
minutes     .     .     ." 

He  had  no  chance  to  finish.  Mr.  Spiteri  made  a  circular 
sweep  with  one  of  his  stockinged  feet,  which  knocked  Mr. 
Spokesly  off  his  own,  and  he  fell  backwards  on  the  settee. 
The  effect  upon  him  was  surprising.  Reflecting  upon  it  later, 
when  he  got  away  to  sea,  Mr.  Spokesly  was  surprised  at 
himself.  He  certainly  saw  red.  The  filthy  condition  of  the 
ship,  the  degradation  of  the  yacht  Carmencita  to  the  baseness 
of  the  KalkiSy  and  his  own  spiritual  exaltation,  reacted  to  fill 
him  with  an  extraordinary  vitality  of  anger.  Mr.  Spiteri 
was  not  in  the  pink  of  condition  either.  He  had  been  drink- 
ing heavily  the  previous  evening  and  his  head  ached.  He 
went  down  at  the  first  tremendous  impact  of  Mr.  Spokesly 's 
fleshy  and  muscular  body,  and  Mr.  Spokesly  came  down  on 
top  of  him.     He  immediately  sank  his  large  white  teeth  in 


178  COMMAND 

Mr.  Spokesly's  left  hand.  Mr.  Spokesly  grunted.  "Leggo, 
you  bastard,  leggo!"  And  at  short  range  mashed  the 
Spiteri  ear,  neck,  and  jaw  hard  and  fast.  Mr.  Spiteri  let  go, 
but  his  antagonist  was  oblivious  until  he  saw  the  man's  face 
whiten  and  sag  loosely  under  his  blows,  while  from  his  own 
head,  where  the  plaster  had  come  off  in  the  struggle,  blood 
began  to  drip  over  them  both. 

Mr.  Spokesly  got  up,  breathing  hard,  and  pointed  into  the 
room. 

"Get  busy,"  he  said  to  the  steward,  "and  clean  all  up. 
Shift  this  out  of  the  way,"  and  he  touched  the  redoubtable 
Spiteri  with  his  foot.  Quite  unwittingly,  for  he  had  been  in  a 
passion  for  the  moment,  Mr.  Spokesly  had  struck  hard  on 
one  of  the  vital  places  of  a  man's  body,  just  behind  the  ear, 
and  Mr.  Spiteri,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  had  fainted. 

Out  on  deck,  the  new  mate  realized  what  he  had  let  himself 
in  for,  and  clicked  his  tongue  as  he  thought,  a  trick  he  had 
never  been  able  to  abandon  since  he  had  left  school.  Tck! 
Tck!  He  saw  his  young  Jew  friend  making  expressive  mo- 
tions with  his  hands  to  the  boatman  who  was  waiting  for  his 
money.  Mr.  Spokesly  had  an  idea.  He  whistled  to  the 
boatman. 

"You  wait,"  he  called  and  held  up  his  hand.  Then  he 
beckoned  to  the  youth. 

"What's  your  name?"  he  demanded.  The  youth  laid  his 
hand  on  his  breast  and  made  a  deep  obeisance. 

"Yes,  yes!"  shouted  the  exasperated  chief  oflficer. 
"What's  your  name?  Moses,  Isaac,  Abraham,  eh?  Never 
mind,  come  on."  He  led  the  way  into  the  saloon  and  waved 
his  hands.  The  cat  rushed  out  of  the  door,  followed  by  a 
kick. 

"Now  you  clean  up,  understand?" 

To  his  unalloyed  delight  the  youth  did  understand.  The 
latter's  nervous  prostration  had  been  due  chiefly  to  the  fact 
that  he  was  entirely  ignorant  of  what  was  expected  of  him. 
He  took  off  his  deplorable  coat  and  grasped  a  bucket. 

Mr.  Spokesly  went  downstairs  again. 

Mr.  Spiteri  was  resting  on  one  elbow  watching  the  steward 


COMMAND  179 

take  his  simple  personal  effects  from  the  drawers  mider  the 
bunk  and  stow  them  in  an  old  suitcase. 

"Get  up  on  deck,"  ordered  Mr.  Spokesly.  "I  wouldn't 
have  a  swab  like  you  in  the  forecastle.  Don't  wonder  the 
Old  Man  complained." 

Mr.  Spiteri  rose  half  way,  coughed  and  spat,  rose  to  his 
feet,  and  wavered  uncertainly  towards  the  stairs. 

"Come  on,  stuff 'em  in!  That'll  do.  Now  take  it  up  and 
pitch  it  into  the  boat." 

The  steward  hurried  up  with  the  bulging  and  half-closed 
suitcase  and  Mr.  Spokesly  followed  with  his  predecessor's 
boots. 

"Down  you  go,"  he  said,  dropping  the  boots  into  the  boat 
and  following  them  up  with  the  suitcase.  "That's  it,"  as  he 
saw  Mr.  Spiteri  step  from  the  ladder  and  topple  against  the 
thwarts.     "Now  we'll  see  who's  in  charge  of  this  ship." 

He  walked  to  the  bridge-rail,  put  two  fingers  in  his  mouth 
and  blew  a  shrill  blast.  Presently  out  of  the  little  forecastle 
emerged  a  stout  man  in  a  canvas  apron  and  sporting  a  large 
well-nourished  moustache.     Mr.  Spokesly's  heart  sank. 

"Come  here!"  he  shouted,  beckoning. 

"What's  the  matter,  Mister?"  said  the  aproned  one,  climb- 
ing up  the  abominable  ladder  with  its  stairs  of  iron  rods.  Mr. 
Spokesly's  heart  rose  again. 

"You  English?"  he  asked. 

"Sure,  I'm  a  French  Canadian,"  retorted  the  other. 
"What's  the  matter?    Are  you  the  new  mate?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly.  "I'm  the  new  mate.  Are  you 
the  bosun?" 

"Sure  I  am,"  said  the  other  indignantly.  "What  did  you 
think  I  was?    The  cook?" 

"Now,  now,  cut  it  out,"  warned  the  new  mate.  "  I've  had 
all  I  can  stand  just  for  the  present.  How  many  men  have 
you  got?" 

"Three.     How  many  did  you  think  I  got?    Thirty?" 

"Bosun,  if  you  want  it,  you  can  have  it,  but  I  tell  you 
straight  you  got  to  help  me  get  this  ship  clean." 

"Sure  I  will.     What  did  you  think  I  was  doin'?" 


180  COMMAND 

"Send  a  man  along  with  a  bucket  of  soft  soap  and  water," 
said  Mr.  Spokesly  hastily.     "I'll  go  round  with  you  later." 

"Where's  that  other  mate?"  asked  the  bosun,  rather 
mystified. 

"Over  the  side,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  pointing. 

"You  seen  the  captinne  yet?"  the  bosun  pursued. 

"Plenty,  plenty.     Send  a  man  along." 

Mr.  Spokesly  turned  and  to  his  intense  astonishment  found 
Captain  Rannie  in  the  saloon. 

"Why,  where  were  you  all  the  time?"  he  asked. 

"In  my  cabin,"  said  Captain  Rannie,  staring  at  the  floor 
nervously.  "I  must  say  you  make  noise  enough  when  you 
join  a  ship." 

"Well,  Captain,  I'll  argue  all  you  want  later.  Where's  the 
medicine  chest?" 

"In  my  cabin." 

"Then  you'll  have  to  give  me  the  run  of  it  to  stop  this 
bleeding.     Got  any  friars' balsam?" 

"I — I — I'll  see.  I'll  see."  Captain  Rannie  objected  to 
be  approached  directly.  He  was  already  beginning  to 
wonder,  after  listening  to  the  very  emphatic  remarks  of  his 
new  chief  officer  through  the  bulkhead  of  his  cabin,  if  he  had 
not  made  a  mistake  in  demanding  a  change.  Very  un- 
settling, a  change.  He  went  downstairs  again  and  unlocked 
his  door.  It  had  three  locks,  Mr.  Spokesly  observed  in  some 
surprise.  After  opening  the  door.  Captain  Rannie  stepped 
through  and  quickly  drew  a  heavy  blue  curtain  across. 

"I'll  bring  it  out  to  you,"  he  said  from  within. 

Mr.  Spokesly  dragged  the  curtain  back  and  stepped  in 
himself.  He  was  indignant  at  this  extraordinary  treatment. 
He  was  astounded,  however,  to  see  Captain  Rannie  shrink 
away  towards  the  settee,  holding  up  his  arms. 

"Don't  you  dare  to  touch  me!"  he  shrieked  in  a  very  low 
key.     "Don't  you      .     .     ." 

Mr.  Spokesly  suddenly  caught  sight  of  himself  in  the  glass 
across  the  room.  He  was  not  a  very  reassuring  spectacle. 
His  face  was  dirty  and  blood-smeared,  and  his  collar  was  torn 
away  from  his  throat.     He  closed  the  door. 


COMMAND  181 

"Captain,"  he  said,  "we'd  better  have  an  understanding 
right  at  the  start.  I*m  going  to  be  mate  o'  this  ship  for  six 
months." 

"You  think  you  are,"  whispered  the  captain,  slowly- 
approaching  a  cabinet  on  the  wall.  "You  only  think  you 
are." 

"Well,  I  been  paid  for  it  anyway,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly, 
examining  his  wounded  hand.  "  So  we'll  take  it  for  granted. 
Now  if  you  back  me  up,  I'll  back  you  up.  Why  didn't  you 
come  out  and  help  me  when  that  stiff  started  to  make 
trouble?" 

Captain  Rannie  absolutely  ignored  this  question.  He  was 
in  a  corner,  and  like  some  animals  in  similar  plight,  he  might 
almost  be  said  to  have  feigned  death.  He  stood  stock  still 
looking  into  his  medicine  chest,  his  back  to  Mr.  Spokesly,  his 
high  shoulders  raised  higher.  He  was  in  a  corner,  for  he  had 
been  betrayed  already  into  the  demonstration  of  nervous  fear. 
It  was  the  knowledge  of  his  horror  of  the  slightest  physical 
contact  with  others  that  Mr.  Spiteri  had  been  unable  to  re- 
sist. 

"He's  nearly  bit  my  thumb  through,"  went  on  Mr. 
Spokesly,  walking  over  to  the  wash-bowl.  The  ship  shook 
as  the  winch  hurled  the  slings  into  the  air.  Down  below  a 
worn  pump  was  knocking  its  heart  out  in  a  succession  of 
hacking  coughs. 

Captain  Rannie,  the  flask  of  friars'  balsam  in  his  hand, 
turned  slowly  from  the  cabinet  and  moved  cautiously  to  the 
table.  He  set  it  down,  went  back,  and  drew  out  a  roll  of 
bandage.  He  was  beginning  to  recover  his  normal  state  of 
mind.  Everything  so  far  had  taken  the  form  in  his  view 
of  violating  the  privacy  of  the  commander.  Everything! 
Here  was  this  man,  not  five  minutes  on  the  ship,  actually 
forcing  his  way  into  the  captain's  room.  Captain  Rannie 
had  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  in  his  life.  It  loomed  before 
him  with  the  grimness  of  an  irrevocable  disaster.  He  had 
always  had  that  last  resource  in  his  encounters  with  Spiteri — 
he  could  go  into  his  room,  lock  all  three  locks,  draw  the  heavy 
blue  curtain,  and  remain  in  a  mysterious  seclusion  for  as  long 


182  COMMAND 

as  he  liked.  Now — ^he  almost  shuddered  with  anguish — 
here  was  this  new  chief  officer — a  perfect  stranger — didn't 
know  him  from  Adam — washing  his  wounds  absolutely  in 
the  sacred  wash-bowl,  standing  in  not  over  clean  shoes  on  the 
very  piece  of  matting  on  which  he  himself,  the  master  of  the 
vessel,  stood  while  shaving  and  making  stern  faces  at  himself 
in  the  glass  as  he  rehearsed  imaginary  scenes  with  the  rabble 
outside.  In  a  few  moments  Mr.  Spokesly's  eyes,  grown 
accustomed  to  the  sombre  twilight  of  the  blue  curtains  of  the 
scuttles,  would  be  wandering  round  the  cabin,  noting  things 
Captain  Rannie  showed  to  no  one.  No  one.  He  grew  fierce 
as  he  thought  of  his  outraged  privacy.  He  must  get  this 
man  out  of  the  room  quickly.  He  slopped  friars'  balsam  on 
some  cotton  wool,  and  fixing  his  pale,  exasperated  gaze  upon 
Mr.  Spokesly's  thumb,  began  to  bind  it  up.  Mr.  Spokesly 
felt  an  urgent  need  for  a  smoke.  He  reached  out  and  drew  a 
cigarette  from  a  box  on  the  table  and  Captain  Rannie's 
head  bent  lower  as  he  flushed  with  a  renewed  sense  of  out- 
rage. Nothing  sacred!  Without  the  slightest  hint  of  a  re- 
quest. 

"We  may  have  a  passenger,  I  hear,"  said  the  oblivious  Mr. 
Spokesly  as  he  managed  to  get  the  cigarette  alight. 

"Oh,  dear  me,  no! "  retorted  Captain  Rannie,  with  a  sort  of 
despairing  chuckle.  "Quite  impossible,  quite.  I  shouldn't 
dream  of  allowing  anything  of  the  sort." 

"Not  if  the  boss  wanted  it?" 

"Oh,  no  doubt,  in  that  case,  the  master  of  the  vessel  would 
be  the  last  to  hear  of  it."  He  returned  to  the  cabinet  to  cut 
some  plaster.  Captain  Rannie  had  not  a  bedside  manner. 
His  method  of  affixing  the  plaster  made  his  patient  grunt. 
Gazing  over  the  upraised  arm  of  the  captain,  Mr.  Spokesly 
suddenly  fixed  his  eyes  with  attention  on  the  pictures  round 
the  bunk.  They  were  pictures  of  people  who  were,  so  to  say, 
the  antithesis  of  his  new  commander,  pugilists  and  wrestlers 
and  dancers,  men  and  women  of  exaggerated  physical  de- 
velopment. Some  of  them  were  so  stark  in  their  emphasis 
on  the  muscles  that  they  resembled  anatomical  diagrams. 
There  were  photographs,  too,  of  sculptures — sharp,  white,  and 


COMMAND  183 

beautiful  against  black  velvet  backgrounds;  boys  wrestling, 
girls  dancing,  a  naked  youth  striving  with  a  leopard.  And 
on  a  hook  near  the  door  was  a  set  of  those  elastic  cords  and 
pulleys  whereby  athletic  prowess  is  developed.  Mr.  Spokesly 
suddenly  lost  his  belligerent  mood.  He  had  encountered 
something  he  did  not  quite  understand.  He  turned  as  the 
captain  finished  and  his  eye  fell  on  shelves  packed  with  books. 
And  outside  the  winch  groaned  and  squeaked,  down  below 
the  pump  thumped  and  bucketed. 

"I'll  go,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly.  " I  must  find  the  bosun.  .  . ." 
And  he  went  out,  eager  to  go  at  the  job  and  get  rid  of  this 
dreadful  grime  on  the  unhappy  old  ship.  As  he  went  the 
captain  stood  in  front  of  the  medicine  chest  swallowing  some- 
thing, a  dull  red  flush  on  his  peaked  and  wrinkled  face.  Sud- 
denly he  darted  to  the  door  and  slammed  it,  locking  it  and 
hurling  the  curtain  across.  And  then  he  sat  down  in  a  wicker 
chair  and  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand.  He  was  trembling 
violently. 

For  he  was  a  man  who  was  at  war  with  the  worid.  He  was 
so  preoccupied  with  this  tremendous  conflict  that  the  dis- 
turbance in  Europe  scarcely  sounded  in  his  ears.  He  was  a 
man  without  faith  and  without  desire  of  hope.  In  the  years 
behind  him  lay  the  wreckage  of  honour,  when  he  had  gone 
out  east  to  the  China  Coast  and  never  gone  back.  Revenge, 
he  had  called  it,  and  called  it  still,  for  unascertained  and 
undefined  injuries.  Since  then  he  had  had  freedom.  He  had 
hugged  the  thought  of  the  woman,  who  had  imagined  herself 
so  clever  at  blinding  him,  working  in  poverty  to  keep  herself 
and  her  brat.  Her  brat,  ha — ^ha!  Away  out  there  in  China, 
a  thousand  miles  up  an  immense  river,  in  the  home  river-port 
of  his  country  ship,  he  said  ha — ^ha!  and  fell  to  improving 
himself.  Driven  to  devise  a  mode  of  existence  both  unsocial 
and  unintellectual,  he  had  stumbled  upon  strange  things  in 
human  life.  He  accumulated  vast  stocks  of  scandal  about 
humanity,  and  delved  into  repositories  of  knowledge  which 
most  men  avoid  and  forget.  Those  and  the  pipe,  which  led 
him  into  another  life  altogether,  the  life  of  irresponsible 
dreams,  wherein  a  man's  mind,  released  from  the  body  yet 


184  COMMAND 

retaining  the  desires  of  the  body,  ranges  forth  into  twilights  of 
obUvion,  clutching  here  and  there  at  strange  seductive  shapes 
and  thrilling  to  voices  not  heard  before.  Captain  Rannie,  out 
there,  was  much  happier  than  many  men  who  hold  their  souls 
in  leash  and  render  their  accounts  exactly.  He  sailed  up  and 
down  his  great  river,  a  mystery  to  the  Chinamen  of  the  crew, 
a  joke  among  the  Europeans.  It  did  not  become  apparent 
to  him  or  anybody  else  that  anything  was  happening  to  him. 
Nothing  was  happening  to  him  save  that  the  lacquer  and 
varnish  and  ornament  of  his  conventional  upbringing  in 
England  were  nearly  all  gone,  and  underneath  there  was  noth- 
ing save  himself,  a  timid,  sensitive,  sensual,  quarrelsome 
creature  with  a  disposition  that  seemed  to  rational  people 
to  have  gone  rancid  with  the  heat.  They  bore  with  him  be- 
cause he  was  used  to  the  work,  and  he  was  a  warm  man  in 
silver  dollars,  too,  they  said.  But  the  country-ships  began  to 
go  home.  The  colossal  freights  out  of  England  could  not  be 
resisted.  Captain  Rannie  was  ordered  to  take  his  ship  home. 
Home !  He  funked  horribly  but  he  funked  losing  his  job  still 
more,  and  he  took  her  home  as  far  as  Port  Said,  with  a  cargo 
of  tobacco  from  Sumatra.  But  farther  he  would  not  go.  He 
made  himself  ill,  an  easy  trick  with  a  well-stocked  medicine 
chest,  and  no  one  suspected  a  man  would  be  striving  to  avoid 
reaching  England.  It  was  generally  just  the  other  way  round. 
He  went  to  the  hospital  until  the  ship  was  gone  and  then 
became  convalescent,  moping  about  Port  Said  in  his  yellow 
pongee  suits  and  enormous  panama  hat,  smoking  innumerable 
cigarettes  and  discovering  among  other  things  a  new  world  of 
gigantic  phantoms. 

It  was  not  difficult,  he  found,  to  discover  the  dealers  in 
drugs  and  he  set  out,  as  a  buyer  of  tobacco.  But  although 
his  first  trip  to  Saloniki  and  back  to  Alexandria  was  successful 
and  enormously  profitable,  he  became  aware  that  he  was 
being  uncomfortably  shadowed,  and  he  left  again  in  an 
Italian  steamer.  It  was  here  he  encountered  Mr.  Dainopou- 
los,  bound  home  from  a  business  trip  to  Egypt;  where  he  had 
been  buying  up  cheap  the  stocks  of  ship-chandlers  who  had 
been  caught  by  the  sudden  withdrawal  of  troops  from  the 


COMMAND  185 

Dardanelles  for  service  in  the  north.  Mr.  Dainopoulos  had 
bought  a  small  ship  and  now  needed  a  commander. 

So  far,  one  might  say,  Captain  Rannie  had  simply  hved  the 
life  of  many  of  his  condition.  Englishmen  who  had  grown  soft 
and  flaccid  during  their  long  exiles  and  who  now  crept  furtively 
along  in  the  shadow  of  war,  neither  very  honest  nor  very 
crooked,  ignoble  and  negligible.  But  as  he  sat  there  now 
behind  his  locked  door  and  heavy  curtain,  shading  his  eyes 
with  his  hand,  he  faced  the  immediate  future  with  dread. 
The  sight  of  Mr.  Spokesly,  bandaged  and  plastered,  hurrying 
out  to  get  on  with  the  work,  made  him  see  with  painful  clear- 
ness where  he  himself  had  fallen  and  how  problematic  was 
the  task  ahead.  He  would  not  tackle  a  job  like  this  again, 
he  told  himself.  Never  again.  He  would  get  away  out 
East  again  with  what  he  had  already  made  and  resume  the 
old,  safe,  easy  river-life,  receiving  his  stacks  of  "reading 
matter"  from  London,  reading  until  his  brain  was  soft  and 
soggy  with  foolish  dreams.  It  was  the  best  life  he  knew  and 
he  longed  to  get  back  to  it.  After  this  voyage.  How  he 
hated  all  this !  When  he  came  back  into  the  world  of  urgent 
men  after  one  of  his  long  periods  of  stupor,  he  was  horrified  at 
the  necessity  of  living  at  all,  and  sometimes  contemplated 
suicide.  Now  he  was  afraid,  not  so  much  of  any  punishment 
which  might  befall  him  as  of  the  destruction  of  his  way  of 
life,  the  harsh  secular  interferences,  the  spying  out  of  his 
useless  secrets  and  his  long-hid  dishonour.  It  was  his  very 
life  now,  this  carefully  contrived  oblivion  in  which  he  lay 
like  an  insect  in  a  cocoon.  It  was  beyond  his  power  to  desire 
a  return  to  England.  The  very  thought  made  him  tremble. 
One  of  the  secrets  he  guarded  with  such  hysterical  care  was  his 
loathing  of  women.  Men  though  thim  a  rake,  a  viveur — ha- 
ha  I  That  was  what  he  wanted  them  to  think.  He  could  not 
bear  any  intimacy  at  all.  This  new  chief  officer — that  was 
the  disturbing  element  in  his  reverie — must  be  given  to  under- 
stand there  could  be  no  intimacy,  none  whatever. 

He  listened  to  the  sounds  of  scrubbing  outside,  vigorous 
thumps  and  kicks  as  the  mops  went  to  and  fro.  There  were 
voices,  too,  the  ingenuous  bawlings  of  that  bosun,  offensively 


tm  COMMAND 

active.  An  unwarrantable  intrusion?  Quite  unnecessary, 
all  this  waste  of  soap  and  soda.  Captain  Rannie  began  to 
revive:  the  white  tabloid  he  had  swallowed  as  the  door 
closed  behind  Mr.  Spokesly  was  getting  its  work  in.  He  felt 
better.  He  would  go  ashore  and  explain  to  Mr.  Dainopoulos 
that  this  sort  of  thing  could  not  go  on.  He  examined  himself 
in  the  glass  with  stern  attention.  His  gray  hair,  parted  just 
off  the  middle,  was  touched  with  a  brush.  Good.  He  was 
ready.  He  lit  a  cigarette.  He  unlocked  the  door  and  went 
out. 

Up  on  deck  Captain  Rannie  was  immediately  aware  of  a 
novel  state  of  affairs.  It  was  so  long  since  he  had  experienced 
the  sensation  he  could  scarcely  identify  it.  There  was  some- 
one in  charge.  The  old  accommodation-ladder,  untouched 
since  the  time  of  Spiteri's  advent,  was  down  and  the  teak 
steps  hastily  scrubbed.  Made  fast  to  the  grating  was  his 
boat,  washed  and  with  a  red  and  yellow  flag  on  the  stern-seat. 
Mr.  Spokesly  in  a  pair  of  the  bosun's  rubber  boots  and  with 
his  coat  off,  came  up,  blowing  a  whistle.  A  young  Norwegian 
came  clattering  up  the  ladder  from  the  fore-deck. 

"Go  and  wash  your  face,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly.  "And  take 
the  cap*en  ashore." 

Captain  Rannie,  as  he  sat  with  the  tiller  in  his  hand  and 
watched  the  young  Norwegian  pulling  with  all  his  might, 
felt  extraordinarily  proud.  That  was  the  way  to  handle 
these  people.  He  had  been  right  after  all.  Be  firm.  New 
blood,  a  tight  hand.  Some  respect  now  for  the  master  of  the 
vessel.  And  no  intimacy.  "Take  the  captain  ashore." 
Brief,  curt,  attentive.  That,  he  held,  was  the  thing.  To 
dwell  apart,  within  a  shining  envelope  of  secular  discipline, 
unquestioned,  unhampered,  and  unloved — that  in  Captain 
Rannie 's  mind  was  the  priceless  privilege  of  command. 


CHAPTER  XI 

MRS.  DAINOPOULOS,  who  was  born  Alice  Thomp- 
son, lay  on  her  Tottenham  Court  Road  sofa  with 
a  Scotch  plaid  rug  over  her,  looking  out  across  the 
sunlit  Gulf  whenever  she  raised  her  eyes  from  her  book.  It  is 
not  extraordinary  that  she  should  have  been  fond  of  reading. 
Suffering  actual  pain  only  occasionally,  she  would  have  found 
time  hang  most  heavily  but  for  this  divine  opiate,  whereby 
the  gentle  and  gracious  figures  of  sentimental  fiction  were 
gathered  about  her  and  lived  out  their  brief  lives  in  that  de- 
serted theatre  of  the  ancient  gods,  between  the  silent  ravines 
of  the  Chalcidice  and  the  distant  summits  of  Thessaly. 

For  without  having  in  any  degree  an  original  imagination 
she  had  a  very  lively  one.  The  people  in  books  were  quite  as 
real  to  her  as  the  people  around  her.  Just  as  she  followed 
the  characters  in  a  book  while  reading,  so  she  only  knew 
actual  human  beings  while  they  were  in  the  room  with  her. 
As  she  read  her  books,  so  she  read  people,  with  intense  interest 
as  how  it  would  end  and  always  longing  for  sequels.  There 
was  no  doubt  in  her  mind,  of  course,  that  you  could  not  have  a 
story  without  love,  and  this  reacted  naturally  enough  upon 
her  judgments  of  people.  She  herself,  she  firmly  believed, 
could  not  exist  without  love.  Nobody  could.  It  was  a  world 
of  delicate  and  impalpable  happiness  where  people  always 
understood  each  other  without  speech,  responding  to  a  touch 
of  a  hand,  a  note  of  music,  the  sunlight  on  the  snow-capped 
mountains,  or  the  song  of  a  bird.  Released  from  the  indurat- 
ing business  of  daily  chores  and  the  calculations  of  house- 
keeping, and  placidly  secure  in  a  miser's  infatuation,  she 
lived  an  almost  effortless  emotional  existence.  She  had  gone 
through  many  stages,  of  course,  like  most  exiles,  from  petu- 
lance to  indifference;  but  by  this  time,  as  she  looked  up  from 

187 


188  COMMAND 

her  book  and  watched  the  Kcdkis  swinging  in  the  current  and 
disappearing  from  time  to  time  in  billows  of  white  steam 
from  her  winches,  Mrs.  Dainopoulos  was  almost  fiercely 
sentimental.  Beneath  a  manner  compounded  of  suburban 
vulgarity  and  English  reserve,  she  concealed  an  ardent  and 
romantic  temperament.  People,  in  her  imagination,  behaved 
exactly  as  did  the  characters  in  the  books  she  had  been  read- 
ing. She  was  the  author,  as  it  were,  of  innumerable  un- 
written romances,  enthusiastic  imitations  of  those  Mr.  Daino- 
poulos obediently  ordered  in  boxes  from  London.  She 
adored  those  books  which,  the  publisher's  advertisement 
said,  made  you  forget;  and  she  never  took  any  notice  at  all 
of  the  advertisement,  often  on  the  opposing  page,  of  the  Lon- 
don School  of  Mnemonics  which  sought  to  sell  books  that 
made  you  remember.  Yet  forget-me-nots  were  her  favourite 
flowers.  To  her,  as  to  Goethe,  art  is  called  art  because  it  is 
not  nature.  The  phantasmagoria  of  Balkan  life,  the  tides  of 
that  extraordinary  and  sinister  sea  which  beat  almost  up 
against  her  windows,  left  her  untroubled.  For  her  there  was 
no  romance  without  love,  and  of  course  marriage.  For 
Evanthia  she  cherished  a  clear,  boyish  admiration  blended 
with  a  rather  terrified  interest  in  her  volcanic  emotional 
outbreaks.  The  difference  between  the  two  women  can  be 
compared  to  the  written  story  and  the  ferocious  transfor- 
mation of  that  story  known  as  a  film- version.  Mrs.  Daino- 
poulos quite  comprehended  that  Evanthia  could  do  things 
impossible  for  an  English  girl.  Even  in  her  seclusion  Mrs. 
Dainopoulos  had  learned  that  the  Cite  Saul  was  not  Haver- 
stock  Hill.  But  she  saw  no  reason  why  Evanthia  should  not 
"find  happiness,"  as  she  phrased  it,  fading  out  with  a  baby 
in  her  arms,  so  to  speak.  She  did  not  realize  that  girls  like 
Evanthia  never  fade  out.  They  are  not  that  kind.  They 
progress  as  Evanthia  progressed,  borne  on  the  crests  of 
aboriginal  impulses,  riding  easily  amid  storms  and  currents 
which  would  wreck  the  tidy  coasting  craft  of  domestic  life. 
They  are  in  short  destined  to  command,  and  nothing  can  sate 
their  appetite  for  spiritual  conflict. 

But  Mrs.  Dainopoulos  did  not  know  this.    She  lay  there 


COMMAND  189 

looking  out  at  the  ineffable  beauty  of  the  Gulf,  a  novel  of 
Harold  Bell  Wright  open  on  her  lap,  dreaming  of  Evanthia 
and  Mr.  Spokesly.  How  nice  if  they  really  and  truly  liked 
each  other!  And  perhaps,  when  the  war  was  over,  they 
could  all  go  to  England  together  and  see  the  Tower  and 
Westminster  Abbey!  This  was  the  way  her  thoughts  ran. 
She  never  spoke  this  way,  however.  Her  speech  was  curt 
and  matter-of-fact,  for  she  was  very  shy  of  revealing  herself 
even  to  her  husband.  Her  sharp,  small  intelligence  never  led 
her  into  the  mistake  of  interfering  with  other  people.  In- 
stead she  imagined  them  as  characters  in  a  story  and  thought 
how  nice  it  would  be  if  they  only  would  behave  that  way. 

And  then  suddenly  in  upon  this  idyllic  scene  burst 
Evanthia,  excited  and  breathless. 

" Oh ! "  she  exclaimed.     "  What  shall  I  do?  " 

"Why,  whatever  is  the  matter,  Evanthia?  Your  eyes 
shine  like  stars.    Do  tell  me." 

Evanthia  came  striding  in  like  an  angry  prima-donna,  her 
hand  stretched  in  front  of  her  as  though  about  to  loose  a 
thunderbolt  or  a  stiletto.  She  flung  herself  down — a  trick 
of  hers,  for  she  never  seemed  to  hurt  herself — on  the  rug 
beside  the  bed  and  leaned  her  head  against  her  friend's  hand. 
It  was  another  trick  of  hers  to  exclaim:  "What  shall  I  do? 
Mon  Dieu !  que  ferai-je?'*  when  she  was  in  no  doubt 
about  what  she  was  going  to  do.  She  was  going  after  her 
lover.  She  was  going  on  board  the  Kalkis  before  she  sailed, 
on  some  pretense,  and  she  was  going  to  the  Pirseus  in  her, 
whence  she  could  get  to  Athens  in  a  brisk  walk  if  necessary, 
and  when  she  got  there  God  would  look  after  her.  She  had 
convinced  herself,  by  stray  hints  picked  up  from  the  do- 
mestics of  the  departed  consuls,  that  her  lover  would  go  to 
Athens.  There  was  as  much  truth  in  this  as  in  the  possi- 
bility of  the  Kalkis  going  to  Pirseus.  It  was  conjecture,  but 
Evanthia  wanted  to  believe  it.  She  had  never  been  in  a  ship, 
and  she  could  have  no  conception  of  the  myriad  changes  of 
fortune  which  might  befall  a  ship  in  a  few  weeks.  She  might 
lie  for  months  in  Phyros.  With  Evanthia,  however,  this 
carried  no  weight.     God  would  take  care  of  her.    It  was 


190  COMMAND 

rather  disconcerting  to  reflect  that  God  did.  Evanthia,  all 
her  life,  never  thought  of  anybody  but  herself,  and  all  things 
worked  together  to  bring  her  happiness  and  to  cast  her  lines 
in  pleasant  places.  Just  at  this  time  she  was  concentrating 
upon  an  adventure  of  which  the  chief  act  was  getting  on 
board  that  little  ship  out  there.  Everything,  even  to  the 
clothes  she  was  to  wear,  was  prepared.  She  had  gone  about 
it  with  a  leisurely,  silent,  implacable  efficiency.  And  now 
she  relieved  her  feelings  in  a  burst  of  hysterical  affection 
for  her  dear  friend  who  had  been  so  kind  to  her  and 
whom  she  must  leave.  She  could  do  this  because  of 
the  extreme  simplicity  of  her  personality.  She  was  af- 
flicted with  none  of  the  complex  psychology  which  makes 
the  Western  woman's  life  a  farrago  of  intricate  inhibi- 
tions. Love  was  an  evanescent  glamour  which  came  and 
passed  like  a  cigarette,  a  strain  of  music,  a  wave  of  furious 
anger.  Evanthia  remembered  the  hours,  forgetting  the 
persons.  But  for  that  gay  and  spirited  young  man  with  the 
little  blond  moustache  and  laughing  blue  eyes,  whom  she 
believed  was  now  in  Athens  flirting  with  the  girls,  her  feeling 
was  different.  He  had  won  from  her  a  sort  of  allegiance. 
She  thought  him  the  maddest,  wittiest,  and  most  splendid 
youth  in  the  world.  She  did  not  despise  Mr.  Spokesly  be- 
cause he  was  not  at  all  like  Fridthiof .  She  could  not  conceive 
in  that  stark  and  simple  imagination  of  hers  two  youths  like 
Fridthiof.  His  very  name  was  a  bizarre  caress  to  her  South- 
ern ears.  How  gay  he  was!  How  clever,  how  vital,  how 
amusingly  irreligious,  how  careless  whether  he  hurt  her  or 
not.  It  was  a  fantastic  feature  of  her  attitude  towards  him 
that  she  liked  to  think  of  herself  as  possessed  by  him  yet 
at  liberty  to  go  where  she  wished.  She  was  experimenting 
crudely  with  emotions,  trying  them  and  flinging  them  away. 
She  had  at  the  back  of  her  mind  the  vague  notion  that  if  she 
could  only  get  back  to  Fridthiof  he  would  take  her  away  into 
Central  Europe,  to  Prague  and  Vienna  and  Munich,  dream 
cities  where  she  could  savour  the  life  she  saw  in  the  moving 
pictures — great  houses,  huge  motor-cars,  gems,  and  gallimau- 
fry.    She  dreamed  of  the  silken  sheets  and  the  milk-baths  of 


COMMAND  191 

sultanas,  servants  in  dazzling  liveries,  and  courtyards  with 
fountains  and  string  music  in  the  shadows  behind  the  palms. 
Perhaps.     Without  history  or  geography  to  guide  her,  she 
imagined  Central  Europe  as  a  sort  of  glorified  Jardin  de  la 
Tour  Blanche,  where  money  grew  upon  trees  or  flowered  on 
boudoir-mantels,  and  where  superb  troops  in  shining  helmets 
and  cuirasses  marched  down  interminable  avenues  of  hand- 
some buildings.     There  was  no  continuity  in  her  mind  be- 
tween money  and  labour.     Men  always  gave  her  money. 
Even  Mr.  Dainopoulos  gave  her  money,  a  little  at  a  time. 
The  poor  worked  and  had  no  money.     There  would  always  be 
money  for  the  asking.     When  the  war  moved  up  into  the 
mountains  again,  as  it  always  did  after  a  while  (for  she  re- 
membered dimly  how  the  armies  went  crashing  southward 
into  Saloniki  in  the  war  of  1912  and  later  fought  among  them- 
selves and  came  crashing  back  again,  passing  through  the 
valley  like  a  herd  of  mastodons),  there  would  be  more  money 
than  ever,  and  the  rich  merchants  would  send  away  again  to 
France  and  Italy  for  silks  and  velvets  and  bijouterie.     Ever 
since  she  could  remember  money  had  been  growing  more  and 
more  plentiful.     The  Englishman  who  had  given  her  that 
splendid  emerald  ring  and  who  had  said  he  would  go  to  hell 
for  her,  had  plenty  of  money,  although  not  long  before  he  had 
had  to  jump  into  the  water  and  swim  to  the  shore  with  only 
his  shirt  and  trousers.     She  might  have  to   swim  herself. 
Well,  what  of  that?     More  than  once  she  had  done  the 
distance  from  the  bathing  house  to  the  Allatini  jetty  and 
back.     Looking  through  lazy,  slitted  eyelids  she  knew  she 
could  swim  to  the  Kalkis  with  ease.     Such  matters  gave  her 
no  anxiety.     Evanthia's  problems  were  those  of  an  explorer. 
She  was  making  her  way  cautiously  into  a  new  world,  a  world 
beyond  those  French  bayonets.     She  hated  the  French  be- 
cause they  invariably  assumed  that  she  was  a  demi-mondaine 
and  treated  her  as  bearded  family  men  treat  daughters  of 
joy.     Perhaps  she  hated  them  also  because  Fridthiof  had 
exhausted  his  amusing  sarcasm  upon  them  as  his  hereditary 
enemies;  but  this  is  not  certain  because  the  Balkan  people 
do  not  conceive  nationality  save  as  a  tribal  clannishness. 


192  COMMAND 

Evanthia's  notions  of  patriotism  were  gathered  from  films 
shown  in  Constantinople  of  imperial-looking  persons  sitting 
on  horses  while  immense  masses  of  troops  marched  by  and 
presented  arms.  It  was  fascinating  but  perplexing,  this 
tumultuous,  shining,  wealthy  outside  world,  and  Evanthia 
was  ready  to  abandon  everything  she  knew,  including  Mrs. 
Dainopoulos,  for  a  look  at  it.  Blood  did  not  matter  out 
there,  Fridthiof  had  told  her.  Demokracy  made  it  possible  for 
any  woman  to  become  a  princess.  So  she  gathered  from  his 
highly  satirical  and  misleading  accounts  of  European  cus- 
toms beyond  French  bayonets.  A  suspicion  suddenly  as- 
sailed her  as  she  lay  on  the  rug  stroking  her  friend's  hand. 

"This  Englishman,  is  he  faithful,  honnete  ?" 

Mrs.  Dainopoulos  allowed  the  leaves  of  her  book  to  slip 
slowly  from  her  fingers.     She  smiled. 

"Englishmen  are  always  faithful,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
thrill  of  pride.  Evanthia  let  this  pass  without  comment. 
Fridthiof  had  once  told  her  the  English  had  sold  every  friend 
they  ever  had  and  betrayed  every  small  nation  in  the  world, 
with  the  result  that  they  now  sat  on  top  of  the  world.  He 
also  expressed  admiration  for  their  inconceivable  national 
duplicity  in  fooling  the  world.  And  Evanthia,  if  she  re- 
flected at  all,  imagined  Mrs.  Dainopoulos  was  of  the  same 
opinion  since  she  had  married  a  Levantine.  Mr.  Spokesly, 
however,  had  said  he  would  go  to  hell  for  her,  which  was  no 
doubt  an  example  of  the  national  duplicity. 

"Humph!"  she  said  at  length  and  sat  there  looking  at  the 
sky  over  the  trees. 

"He's  engaged,  j^anc^,  you  know,  to  a  girl  in  England,  but 
I  don't  think  he  loves  her  very  much.  I  think  he  is  beginning 
to  like  a  friend  of  mine,  Evanthia.  Did  you  go  to  the  cinema 
last  night?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes.  It  was  beautiful.  I  love  the  American 
pictures,  cowboys.  They  shot  the  police  dead.  And  in  the 
end  the  girl  had  a  baby." 

"But  wasn't  she  married  first,  dear?"  asked  the  sick  lady, 
laughing. 

"Oh,  yes.    It  was  beautiful,"  answered  Evanthia  dreamily. 


COMMAND  193 

"Very,  very  beautiful.  They  ride  and  shoot  all  the  time,  in 
America." 

"And  have  babies,"  added  Mrs.  Dainopoulos. 

"No!"  said  Evanthia  with  startling  lucidity.  "Fridthiof 
has  been  there." 

"I  thought  you  had  forgotten  him,  dear.  You  know  I 
think  he  was  not  a  good  influence  for  you." 

Evanthia  murmured,  "Ah,  yes,"  and  smiled. 

"I  don't  think  he  always  told  you  the  truth.  I  am  afraid 
he  made  things  up  to  tell  you." 

"  I  think  he  is  gone  to  Athens." 

"Why?" 

"  I  speak  to  the  old  Anna  Karoglou  who  sweep  in  the  Con- 
sulate. She  hear  the  Consul's  wife  say  she  has  a  sister  in 
Athens." 

Mrs.  Dainopoulos  was  not  prepared  to  accept  this  as  con- 
clusive evidence,  though  she  knew  these  illiterate  people  had 
their  own  mysterious  news  agencies. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "i/ow  can't  go  to  Athens  just  now,  can 

you.?" 

"The  Englishman  will  get  me  a  passport,"  answered 
Evanthia.     "He  said  he  would  get  one." 

"Did  he  though.?    That's  very  kind  of  him." 
"Yes,  he  will  do  anything  for  me,  anything." 
"Have  you  sent  word  to  your  mother.'     I  feel  responsible 
for  you,  Evanthia  dear.'* 

"Oh,  I  come  back,"  said  the  girl  airily,  "I  come  back." 
"I  don't  believe  you  will,"  said  Mrs.  Dainopoulos  gravely. 
"I  don't  believe  you  will." 

"Yes,  yes.  Come  back  to  my  dear  friend." 
She  did  too,  later  on,  very  much  damaged.  She  arrived  in 
a  crowded  train  of  horse-cars,  her  clothes  in  a  crushed  old 
basket  and  a  refugee  ticket  fastened  to  her  blouse  with  a  huge 
brass  safety  pin.  She  did  not  dwell  on  her  adventures.  So 
many  women  were  going  through  very  much  the  same  thing. 
And  Mr.  Dainopoulos  by  that  time  was  too  rich  and  too  busy 
getting  richer  to  bother  about  a  stray  like  her,  and  he  did  not 
ask.    To  the  end  it  remained  an  impalpable  grievance  with 


194  COMMAND 

her  that  she  made  no  impression  upon  her  dear  friend's  hus- 
band. 

She  jumped  up  now,  and,  kissing  Mrs.  Dainopoulos,  has- 
tened away  to  see  to  the  evening  meal.  Downstairs,  standing 
in  the  doorway  of  the  dining  room,  she  caught  the  young  girl 
putting  some  candied  plums  in  her  mouth  and  broke  into  a 
swirl  of  vituperation.  Mr.  Spokesly,  coming  in  behind  his 
employer  at  that  moment,  thought  it  was  remarkably  like  a 
cat  spitting.  The  servant  suddenly  slipped  past  Evanthia, 
eyes  downcast  and  smouldering,  and  scampered  out  of  sight. 
Mr.  Spokesly  looked  after  the  lithe  little  form  with  the 
slender  cotton  stockings  and  little  cup-like  breasts  under  the 
one-piece  cotton  dress.  He  had  an  idea  that  that  girl  would 
like  to  knife  both  Evanthia  and  himself. 

He  followed  Evanthia  out  into  the  garden. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said.  "I  got  everything  on  board. 
But  no  passport.     Nothing  doing." 

"No?" 

He  shook  his  head  in  confirmation.  Most  emphatically 
there  had  been  nothing  doing.  They  were  all  in  a  decidedly 
ugly  mood,  with  that  darned  girl  of  Jack  Harrowby's  in  gaol 
for  telling  about  the  times  of  sailing.  They  knew  well  enough 
the  girl  had  been  a  fool,  an  innocent  go-between;  but  they 
weren't  having  any  more  of  it.  The  young  lady  with 
friends  in  Athens  would  have  to  exist  without  them  until  the 
war  was  over.  Let  her  apply  to  the  Provisional  Government 
and  then,  if  all  was  satisfactory,  they  would  forward  the  ap- 
plication to  the  War  Office,  who  would  look  into  it.  Some- 
time next  year  would  be  a  good  date  to  expect  a  reply — 
probably  in  the  negative.  That  was  all  he  could  get  out  of 
them.  He  looked  glumly  at  Evanthia,  who  stared  back  at 
him  thinking  rapidly.  She  had  not  expected  a  passport. 
To  her  a  passport  was  an  infernal  contrivance  for  landing 
you  in  prison  unless  you  paid  and  paid  and  paid  an  inter- 
minable succession  of  officials.  When  she  had  exclaimed  to 
Mrs.  Dainopoulos,  "Oh,  what  shall  I  do?  Qveferai-je  .^"  she 
had  been  really  thinking  aloud.  What  should  she  do  if  the 
Englishman  failed  to  get  a  passport?     Even  that  was  a  pose 


COMMAND  195 

because  she  had  decided  what  to  do.  She  drew  Mr.  Spokesly 
farther  away  from  the  house  and  turned  to  him  with  an  ex- 
pression of  smiling  composure  on  her  face.  He  stared  as 
though  fascinated.  She  was  going  to  spring  something  on 
him,  he  was  sure.  In  the  intervals  between  sleep  and  his 
herculean  labours  to  get  the  Kcdkis  ship-shape  and  Bristol 
fashion  he  sometimes  wondered  whether  she  had  not  taken 
him  literally  when  he  had  said  he  would  go  to  hell  for  her. 
Another  thing:  it  appeared  he  had  to  do  this  for  nothing.  He 
was  to  get  her  back  to  her  lover  and  receive  a  purely  nominal 
reward.  He  took  hold  of  her  shoulders  and  kissed  her  hair. 
He  was  certainly  taking  a  chance  in  trying  to  get  her  a  pass- 
port. He  had  had  to  be  truculent.  He  was  only  trying  to  do 
a  decent  turn  to  a  neutral.  Mr.  Dainopoulos  would  have 
applied  himself  only  he  felt  he  was  in  a  delicate  position, 
having  chartered  his  ship  to  the  Government,  and  so  did  not 
want  to  embarrass  them.  And  so  on.  A  new  Mr.  Spokesly. 
Perhaps  his  visit  to  the  Post  Office  for  letters  had  something 
to  do  both  with  his  truculence  and  his  present  air  of  fascinated 
interest  in  Evanthia's  face.  For  there  had  been  no  letters. 
There  you  were,  you  see.  Out  of  sight,  out  of  mind.  The 
new  Mr.  Spokesly  was  a  shade  more  rugged  than  the  other,  a 
shade  harder  in  the  line  from  ear  to  chin,  a  shade  more  solid 
on  his  pins.     Evanthia  pulled  his  head  over  to  her  ear. 

"What  time  ship  go  away?"  she  asked  hurriedly. 

"To-morrow,"  he  muttered,  remembering  Jack  Harrowby's 
indiscretion.     "To-morrow,  but  you  mustn't  tell  anybody." 

"Pst!  Who  should  I  tell,  stupidity!  To-night  you  go  on 
the  ship,  eh?" 

"They  won't  let  a  lady  go  through  .  .  ."  he  began  and 
she  pulled  his  ear. 

"Tck!  You  go  on  the  ship.  By  and  by,  late,  late,  I  come, 
too." 

"No.  Look  here,  dear,  the  picket  launches  '11  see  a  boat  as 
soon     .     .     ." 

She  held  up  her  finger  warningly. 

"I  wait.  You  come.  Watch!  In  the  window  a  little 
light.     Pprrp!" 


196  COMMAND 

She  flicked  her  fingers  at  him  and  ran  away. 

Mr.  Spokesly  looked  after  her  and  sighed  with  relief  and 
anxiety  at  the  same  time.  He  knew  it  was  a  ticklish  game  to 
play.  If  she  started  coming  out  in  a  boat  from  the  shore  here, 
as  sure  as  death  those  naval  pickets  who  were  for  ever  rushing 
about  would  dart  up  and  want  to  know  all  about  it.  And  get 
both  him  and  his  employer  into  trouble.  It  was  up  to  her 
now.  He  had  bought  an  officer's  tin  trunk  and  it  had  been 
three  parts  full  of  her  clothes  when  he  went  aboard  with  it. 
He  doubted  if  she  could  make  it.  Well,  he  had  arranged  to 
spend  the  night  on  board  because  Captain  Rannie  was 
off  on  some  pecuHar  jamboree  of  his  own,  and  he  would 
keep  a  look-out  for  the  Uttle  light.  And  then  Mr.  Spokesly 
saw  a  light  in  his  mind.  He  smiled.  His  imagination  was 
not  a  facile  piece  of  machinery.  He  saw  things  steadily 
and  sometimes  saw  them  whole,  but  he  did  not  see  them  at 
all  if  they  were  any  distance  ahead.  He  had  now  caught 
sight  of  what  lay  ahead.  He  smiled  again,  and  went  in  to 
supper. 

Mr.  Dainopoulos,  who  was  always  well  aware  of  things  very 
far  away  ahead,  was  much  occupied  in  his  mind,  but  he  kept 
up  a  good  flow  of  conversation  to  cover  his  anxiety.  He  had 
been  approached  that  day  by  the  authorities  with  a  proposal. 
The  new  Provisional  Government  was  like  most  governments 
of  the  kind,  frock-coated,  silk-hatted,  kid-gloved  politicians 
with  extensive  vocabularies  and  limited  business  experience. 
The  agriculturists  of  the  hinterland  were  in  dire  need  of  im- 
plements, machinery,  and  fertilizers.  What  was  needed 
was  a  responsible  person  or  syndicate  who  would  act  as  pur- 
chasing agent,  financing  the  operation  against  the  harvest. 
The  Government  proposed  to  authorize  an  issue  of  half  a 
million  drachma  to  a  duly  constituted  syndicate.  It  was  an 
alluring  prospect.  His  friend  Malleotis  was  in  it,  too,  and 
thought  it  a  good  thing.  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  while  he  talked 
to  Mr.  Spokesly,  was  developing  the  plan  of  campaign  in  his 
head.  He  was,  so  to  speak,  flexing  his  mental  sinews.  His 
extremely  financial  brain  was  working,  and  the  more  he  con- 
sidered it  the  more  lucrative  the  thing  appeared  to  be.     Mai- 


COMMAND  197 

leotis  had  insisted  on  a  two-year  agreement  as  there  might  be 
losses  on  the  coming  harvest.  Long-headed  man,  Malleotis. 
Yes,  yes,  hm.     .     .     . 

Here  is  presented  in  moderate  contrast  the  divergent 
temperaments  of  Boris  Dainopoulos,  a  man  of  business,  and 
Mr.  Reginald  Spokesly,  a  man  of  a  type  much  more  common 
than  many  people  imagine.  Mr.  Spokesly  had  no  business 
ability  whatever.  It  simply  was  not  in  him.  His  mitier, 
when  he  was  fully  awake,  was  simply  watch-keeping,  which  is 
a  blend  of  vigilance,  intelligence,  and  a  flair  for  being  about 
at  the  critical  moment.  Out  of  this  is  born  the  faculty  and 
the  knack  of  commanding  men,  which  is  a  very  different 
thing  from  bossing  men  in  business.  And  so,  while  his 
employer  was  already  immersed  in  a  new  and  fascinating  deal 
which  might  make  him  much  richer  than  he  had  ever  hoped 
in  so  short  a  time,  Mr.  Spokesly  had  forgotten  that  money 
existed  save  as  change  for  the  pocket,  and  was  devoting  the 
whole  spiritual  energy  to  the  contemplation  of  an  affair  of  the 
heart.  And  this  is  a  problem  in  which  ethics  plays  no  part  at 
all.  The  moralist  has  ever  a  tendency  to  applaud  the  man 
diligent  in  business.  But  the  business  man  is  dependent 
upon  the  emotionalist  and  the  sensualist,  too,  for  the  success 
of  his  designs.  As  has  been  pointed  out  by  an  authority  the 
world  is  a  stage  and  the  men  and  women  players.  Had  he 
lived  in  later  times  he  might  have  remarked  that  the  world 
is  not  quite  so  simple  as  that.  There  are  business  men  and 
ticket-speculators  nowadays,  for  example. 

Another  thing  which  preoccupied  Mr.  Dainopoulos  was  his 
responsibility  towards  Mr.  Spokesly.  He  didn't  want  any- 
thing to  happen  to  him.  His  wife  was  always  talking  about 
him.  Of  course  that  baggage  Evanthia  was  after  him,  but 
Mr.  Dainopoulos  was  not  worrying  about  her.  He  was 
anxious  that  Mr.  Spokesly  should  not  get  into  trouble  over 
this  trip.  There  might  be  something  about  the  latter  part 
of  the  voyage  that  the  chief  mate  wouldn't  like  at  all.  If 
anything  miscarried  he  might  not  be  able  to  prove  he  did  not 
know  what  was  going  on.  Mr.  Dainopoulos  mentioned  it  in 
the  garden  afterwards. 


198  COMMAND 

"Don't  you  interfere  with  the  captain,  Mister,"  he  re- 
marked, over  a  cigarette. 

"Eh!"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  wondering  very  much.  "How 
can  I  interfere  with  a  man  Hke  him?  He  sets  the  course,  and 
I  run  it  off.     No  business  o'  mine  what  he's  doing. " 

This  was  so  exactly  in  accordance  with  Mr.  Dainopoulos's 
views  and  so  exactly  what  Mr.  Spokesly  ought  to  say  suppos- 
ing he  knew  everything,  that  the  former  looked  hard  at  the 
mate  and  uttered  a  cackling  snarl  of  astonished  satisfaction. 

"Why,  that's  just  it.     You  let  him  settle  everything." 

"Except  the  work  about  the  deck." 

"Ah-h!"  Mr.  Dainopoulos  was  not  lying  awake  at  night 
worrying  about  the  condition  of  the  deck  of  the  Kalkis.  But 
he  said  nothing  more  than  his  guttural  "Ah!" 

"And  the  accommodation  has  got  to  be  kept  clean  while 
I'm  there,"  babbled  Mr.  Spokesly. 

"Why,  certainly,  certainly,"  assented  Mr.  Dainopoulos. 

"I  ought  to  tell  you  I  tried  to  get  a  passport  for  Miss 
Solaris,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly  in  a  low  tone.  "They  wouldn't 
hear  of  it." 

"I  told  her  three  or  four  times  it  was  no  good,"  said  Mr. 
Dainopoulos  irritably.     "What  does  she  think  she  is?" 

"Well,  she's  got  the  idea  she  wants  to  go  to  Athens 
and     .     .     ." 

"She  won't  go  to  Athens." 

"You  mean  the  ship  don't  go  to  Pirseus?" 

"I  mean  she  won't  go  to  Athens." 

"Well,  I  done  the  best  I  could  for  her.  She  could  have  my 
cabin,  and  I'd  sleep  in  the  chart-room." 

"How  can  she  get  on  board?"  asked  Mr.  Dainopoulos. 
"Does  she  think  I'm  goin'  to  get  myself  into  a  lotta  trouble 
for  her?  Why,  let  me  say  to  you.  Mister,  I  do  plenty  busi- 
ness yviih  these  peoples,  but  I  could  not  get  a  passport  now  for 
Mrs.  Dainopoulos.  No!  How  can  I  get  one  for  a  girl  who 
nobody  knows  nothing  about?     Such  foolishness!" 

"Just  what  I  told  her  and  she  laughed  at  me  and  told  me 
she'd  manage  it." 

"She  may  do  that.     She  can  get  one  of  these  officers  to  fix 


COMMAND  199 

it,  very  likely.  You  know  how  they  are,  these  French 
officers.     Anything  for  a  pretty  young  lady." 

"She  wouldn't  do  that,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly  with  a  troubled 
air.     "She's  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Dainopoulos,  remember." 

"I  remember  all  right.  But  plenty  of  women  do  that  sort 
of  business  all  the  time  in  war.  Every  war  the  same.  Some- 
thing, I  dunno  what  you  call  it,  gets  'em.  They  go  crazy,  a 
little.  They  like  the  uniforms  and  the  tom-te-tom-tom-tom 
of  the  music.  You  know  what  I  mean.  I  tell  her  she  oughta 
get  a  job  in  Stein's.  But  she  don't  like  anybody  to  tell  her 
anything.  She  ain't  nothin'  to  me.  Her  mother  .  .  .  ! 
Humph!"  And  Mr.  Dainopoulos  flicked  his  thumbs  out- 
ward. 

"What  I  told  her  was,  if  she  did  get  aboard,  she'd  have  a 
trip  down  to  the  Islands  and  back.  But  she  don't  under- 
stand." 

"She  don't  understand  nothin'  only  buyin'  clothes  an' 
thinkin'  she's  one  of  these  here  grand  duchesses  in  Russia," 
snapped  Mr.  Dainopoulos.  "Don't  you  take  any  notice  of 
her  nonsense  stuff." 

"Well,  I'm  supposed  to  be  disinterested  in  this,"  said  Mr. 
Spokesly  with  a  slight  smile.  "I  mean,  I  will  say  she's  been 
straight  about  it." 

"About  what?"  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  somewhat  mysti- 
fied. 

"That  sweetheart  she  had,  who  went  away." 

"Oh,  him!    He's  gone." 

"She  reckons  he's  in  Athens." 

"She  reckons  anything  she  hears  and  she  can  believe  any- 
thing she  wants.     It  don't  hurt  nobody." 

"That's  right,  but  what  do  you  think?" 

"Nothin'.  What's  it  got  to  do  with  me?  I'd  be  a  fine 
sorta  fool  to  mix  up  with  her  business,  me  doing  business  with 
the  English  Army,  eh?     Whatta  you  think  I  am?" 

"She's  neutral,  I  suppose." 

"Yes,  but  he  ain't.  He  was  assistant  vice-consul  and  he 
used  to  go  aboard  the  ships  and  talk  his  English.  He  was  in 
London  years.     Talks  EngHsh  better  than  you  do.    And  he 


200  COMMAND 

was  sendin*  reports  all  the  time  -n  the  ConsuFs  bag."  Mr. 
Dainopoulos  gave  a  curt  chuckle.  "Nothin*  to  do  with 
me.  They  thought  he  was  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  feller.  Made  them 
laugh.  And  they  used  to  tell  him  where  they  been  and  where 
they  was  goin'.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  was  all  over  the  place. 
She's  crazy  about  him,  I  know.  But  he's  forgot  all  about  her 
long  ago.     You  no  need  to  worry  about  him." 

Mr.  Spokesly  was  not  worrying  about  him.  One  does  not 
worry  about  rivals  who  are  in  all  probabihty  three  or  four 
hundred  miles  beyond  the  battle  line.  But  he  was  pained  at 
Mr.  Dainopoulos's  estimate  of  Evanthia.  He  felt  sorry  for  a 
man  who  was  unable  to  appreciate  the  flavour,  the  bouquet, 
so  to  speak,  of  so  delicious  a  personahty.  When  Mr.  Daino- 
poulos said  warningly,  over  his  shoulder,  his  scarred  and  un- 
lovely features  slewed  into  a  grin,  "You  watch.  She'll  fool 
you,"  he  did  not  deny  it.  What  he  wondered  at  was  the 
failure  of  his  employer  to  appreciate  the  extreme  pleasure  of 
being  fooled  by  a  woman  like  Evanthia.  For  Mr.  Spokesly 
had  of  late  discovered  that  a  man  can,  in  some  curious  sub- 
conscious way,  keep  his  head  in  a  swoon.  Like  the  person 
under  an  anaesthetic,  who  is  aware  of  his  own  pulsing,  swaying 
descent  into  a  hurried  yet  timeless  oblivion,  whose  brain 
keeps  an  amused  record  of  the  absurd  efforts  of  alien  intelli- 
gences to  communicate  with  him  as  he  drops  past  the  spinning 
worlds  into  darkness,  and  who  is  aware,  too,  of  his  own  entire 
helplessness,  a  man  can  with  advantage  sometimes  let  him- 
self be  fooled.  For  Mr.  Spokesly,  who  had  always  prided 
himself  on  his  wide-awake  attitude  towards  women,  it  was  a 
bracing  and  novel  experience  to  let  Evanthia  fool  him.  It 
was  really  a  form  of*  making  a  woman  happy  since  some 
women  are  incapable  of  happiness  unless  they  are  fooling  men. 
But  he  was  unable  to  get  Mr.  Dainopoulos  to  see  this  aspect 
of  the  affair.  Mr.  Dainopoulos  was  not  the  man  to  let  any- 
body fool  him  unless  it  might  be  his  wife.  It  may  be  doubted 
that  even  she  managed  it.  He  was  very  largely  what  we  call 
Latin,  and  the  Latins  are  strangely  devoid  of  illusions  about 
women.  She  mystified  him  at  times,  as  when  she  checked 
him  in  his  desire  to  tell  people  that  away  back  he  had  an 


COMMAND  201 

English  relative.  He  was  very  proud  of  it  and  he  could  not 
understand  his  wife's  reluctance  to  hear  him  mention  it.  It 
certainly  gave  him  no  clue  to  their  characters;  but  like  many 
men  of  diversified  descent  he  had  occasional  fits  of  wanting 
to  be  thought  English.  He  had  been  very  indignant  with 
that  fresh  young  Fridthiof  Lietherthal,  who  had  laughed  at 
his  deep-toned  statement,  "  I  have  British  blood  in  my  veins," 
and  remarked  airily,  *'Well,  try  to  live  it  down,  old  man,  that's 
all."  Very  indignant.  Thought  he  was  everybody,  that 
young  feller.  And  he  had  a  Swedish  mother!  And  said  he 
envied  the  Englishman  his  colossal  ego,  whatever  that  might 
be.     A  smart-aleck,  they  would  call  him  in  America. 

He  walked  down  the  road  with  Mr.  Spokesly,  who  was 
going  to  take  the  car  along  and  then  go  aboard.  He 
said: 

"  I'll  be  on  board  the  ship  to-morrow  morning  early.  Any- 
thing you  want,  let  me  know  and  I'll  have  it  sent  over  in  the 
afternoon  before  you  sail.  This  will  be  a  good  trip  for  you, 
and  when  you  come  back,  by  that  time  I'll  have  a  good  job 
for  you." 

Mr.  Spokesly  decided  to  take  a  carriage.  As  he  bowled 
along  he  turned  over  in  his  mind  the  chances  of  seeing 
Evanthia  Solaris  again.  He  had  no  faith  in  her  ability  to 
make  an  effectual  departure  from  Saloniki.  Yet  he  would 
not  have  taken  a  heavy  wager  against  it.  She  had  an  air  of 
having  something  in  reserve.  He  smiled  as  he  thought  what  an 
education  such  a  woman  was.  How  she  kept  one  continually 
on  the  stretch  matching  her  moods,  her  whims,  her  sudden 
flashes  of  savage  anger  and  glowing  softness.  And  he 
thought  of  the  immediate  future,  moving  through  dangerous 
seas  with  her  depending  upon  him.  If  only  she  could  do  it! 
This  was  a  dream,  surely.  He  laughed.  The  least  intro- 
spective of  men,  he  sometimes  held  inarticulate  conver- 
sations. He  had  often  imagined  himself  the  arbiter  of  some 
beautiful  woman's  fate,  some  fine  piece  of  goods.  There  was 
nothing  wicked  in  this,  simply  a  desire  for  romance.  He  was 
a  twentieth-century  Englishman  in  the  grand  transition 
period  between  Victorianism  and  Victory,  when  we  still  held 


COMMAND 

the  conventional  notions  of  chivalry  and  its  rewards.  It 
should  not  be  forgotten  that  when  a  knight  actually  did  win 
a  fair  lady  he  had  some  voice  in  her  disposal;  and  it  was  a 
vestige  of  this  instinct  which  appeared  in  Mr.  Spokesly  as 
speculations  concerning  Evanthia's  future. 

He  decided  to  go  in  and  look  up  his  elderly  friend  in  the 
Olympos.  He  found  him  standing  in  the  entrance,  holding 
a  black,  silver-headed  cane  to  his  mouth  and  whistling  very 
softly. 

*' Why,  here  you  are!  You  are  a  stranger!  What  do  you 
say  if  we  have  a  couple?  Not  here.  I  know  a  place  a  little 
way  along.     How  have  you  been  doing  now.^" 

Mr.  Spokesly  said  he  had  been  busy  on  a  new  job  and 
hadn't  had  much  time  for  going  out. 

"On  that  little  Greek  boat,  isn't  it?  I  must  say  you've 
got  a  great  old  cock  for  a  commander." 

"What  do  you  know  about  him?" 

"Oh,  I  just  happen  to  know  the  story  and  it  may  not  be 
true  after  all.  But  they  do  say  he  had  a  Chink  wife  and 
practically  lived  like  a  Chink  up-river.  And  you  know  what 
that  means  for  an  Englishman.  However,  that's  neither 
here  nor  there.     This  is  the  place." 

He  pushed  open  a  couple  of  swing  doors  and  they  entered  a 
large,  bam-like  room  filled  with  tables  and  chairs.  At  the 
back  a  small  stage  was  erected  and  beside  it  stood  a  piano. 
The  flags  of  the  Allies,  wrongly  drawn,  and  a  portrait  of 
Venizelos  looking  like  a  Presbyterian  minister  in  shell-rim 
glasses,  were  the  only  decorations  of  the  dirty  walls.  A 
number  of  men  in  uniform  were  lounging  about,  drinking  beer 
and  smoking  cigarettes.  The  elderly  lieutenant  led  the  way 
to  a  table  near  the  piano.  Immediately  a  waiter,  who  looked 
like  a  New  York  gun-man,  signalled  to  two  women  who  were 
seated  in  different  parts  of  the  room,  and  went  forward  to 
take  the  order.  This  was  for  beer,  and  while  they  drank,  one 
of  the  women,  a  fat  middle-aged  person  without  neck  or 
ankles,  after  the  manner  of  middle-aged  Greek  women, 
clambered  on  to  the  stage.  The  other,  a  girl  with  black 
spiral  curls  on  each  side  of  her  face,  curls  like  the  springs  on 


COMMAND  203 

screen  doors,  and  with  a  short  skirt  that  showed  quite  ab- 
normally thin  legs,  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  drove  with  an 
incredible  lack  of  skill  through  the  accompaniment  of  a  song. 
It  seemed  to  be  a  race  between  the  two  of  them.  The  fat 
woman  was  already  stepping  down  from  the  stage  as  she 
gabbled  the  final  bars  of  her  supposedly  risky  French  song. 
An  intoxicated  ambulance  driver  hammered  on  the  table  with 
his  glass  and  then  roared  with  laughter.  The  two  women 
came  swiftly  to  the  table  and  sat  down  by  the  lieutenant  and 
Mr.  Spokesly. 

"This  is  my  little  friend,"  said  the  lieutenant,  chucking  the 
fat  middle-aged  creature  under  a  number  of  chins.  The 
sinister  waiter  appeared,  swept  away  the  beer-glasses,  and 
stood  poised  for  instant  flight.  The  fat  woman  muttered 
something  in  reply  to  the  lieutenant's  request  to  name  her 
poison  and  the  waiter  almost  instantly  produced  two  bottles 
of  Greek  champagne,  a  notable  blend  of  bad  cider  and  worse 
ginger-ale. 

*'Let  me  pay,"  suggested  Mr.  Spokesly,  but  his  friend  put 
up  his  hand,  smihng. 

*'I  always  treat  my  little  friend,"  he  said,  and  patted  her 
short,  pointed  fingers. 

"Feefty  francs,"  said  the  waiter,  and  his  eyes  glared  into 
the  lieutenant's  wallet  with  almost  insane  ferocity. 

Mr.  Spokesly  was  glad  he  had  not  been  permitted  to  pay 
for  the  two  bottles  with  their  shoddy  tinfoil  and  lying  labels. 
The  eyes  of  the  women  never  left  the  polished  pigskin  note- 
case while  it  was  in  sight.  It  was  almost  provocative  of 
physical  pain,  the  dreadful  look  on  their  faces  in  the  presence 
of  money.  Theii:  features  were  contorted  to  a  set,  silent  snarl 
and  their  eyes  had  the  black  globular  lustre  of  a  rat's.  The 
girl  with  the  ringlets  snuggled  near  Mr.  Spokesly  and  began  to 
project  one  of  those  appalling  intimacies  which  are  based  on 
the  insignificance  of  personality.  To  him,  at  that  moment 
almost  entirely  dominated  by  a  vivid  and  delicious  character, 
the  bizarre  efforts  of  this  unwashed  painted  gamine  to  assume 
the  pose  of  sweetheart  was  almost  terrifying,  and  he  avoided 
her  rolling  eyes  and  predatory  claws  with  a  sense  of  profound 


204  COMMAND 

shame.  His  elderly  friend,  however,  was  thoroughly  enjoy- 
ing himself.  He  had  reached  that  period  of  life,  perhaps  the 
best  of  all  for  a  seafaring  man,  when  he  is  happily  married  and 
comfortably  situated,  and  he  can  now  give  his  mind  to  those 
sentimental  fancies  which  he  had  to  pass  up  earlier  in  life 
owing  to  economic  stress.  A  seaman's  mind  is  an  involved 
affair  in  which  thoughts  and  emotions  and  desires  are  stowed 
entirely  without  reference  to  academic  order.  So  the  old 
lieutenant,  who  had  had  a  son  killed  at  Mons  and  who  truly 
loved  his  wife,  and  who  was  looking  forward  to  loving  his 
grandchildren,  was  now  having  a  little  time  off  from  his 
elderly  duties,  and  enjoying  the  unaccustomed  pleasure  of 
being  a  bit  of  a  dog.  This  was  his  little  friend,  this  oleaginous 
vampire  who  received  a  percentage  of  the  price  of  the  drinks 
ordered  and  all  she  could  wheedle  out  of  drunken  customers. 
There  is  nothing  incomprehensible  in  this.  One  is  permitted 
to  marvel  at  these  modern  Circes,  however,  who  turn  men 
into  swine  by  transforming  themselves. 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly  after  trying  the 
champagne,  "I  think  I'll  have  some  more  beer." 

His  friend  smiled  happily  and  pinched  the  cheek  of  his  little 
friend  who  was  now  on  his  knee  with  a  fat  arm  over  his 
shoulder. 

"This  is  something  Hke,  eh!'*  A  young  man  was  playing 
the  piano  noisily. 

"How's  things  at  the  office.^"  said  Mr.  Spokesly. 

The  old  fellow  chuckled. 

"Oh,  what  do  you  think  is  the  latest?  My  young  lordship 
told  me  in  future  I  was  to  run  round  and  round  the  White 
Tower  from  nine  to  five.  For  the  duration  of  the  war,  he 
says.  What  do  you  think  of  that?  That's  what  we  get  for 
joining  up.  Serving  our  country.  Why,  it's  a  joke.  What 
is  it,  dear?"  He  listened  attentively  to  his  little  friend's 
whisper.  "  She  wants  to  know  if  you  are  going  to  stand  treat 
to  your  little  friend,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Spokesly. 

Mr.  Spokesly 's  little  friend,  with  her  emaciated  limbs, 
lemon-coloured  French  boots,  and  infuriating  ringlets,  was 
smiling  in  what  was  supposed  to  be  irresistible  coyness.     The 


COMMAND  205 

waiter  was  already  sweeping  away  the  bottle  and  glasses, 
which  were  full  and  which  would  be  carefully  decanted,  re- 
bottled  and  served  up  to  the  old  lieutenant  the  following 
evening. 

"Oh,  all  right.  But  I  can't  stay  long.  I  have  to  get 
aboard,  you  know." 

"He  can't  go  till  you  get  there,*'  argued  his  friend. 

"Ah,  but  I've  a  special  reason  for  wanting  to  be  on  board 
to-night." 

"Well,  here's  luck  to  the  voyage." 

"Good  luck,"  said  the  women,  touching  the  edge  of  the 
glasses  with  their  lips  and  setting  them  down  again. 

"Feefty  francs,"  said  the  waiter,  glaring  over  a  black 
moustache  at  the  fistful  of  money  Mr.  Spokesly  drew  from  a 
trouser  pocket. 

The  pianist  crashed  out  some  tremendous  chords.  The 
old  lieutenant's  little  friend  whispered  in  his  ear. 

"What's  that,  dear.''  Oh!  She  wants  to  know  if  you'll 
stand  the  musician  something,  seeing  you  haven't  been  here 
before.    It's  usual." 

Mr.  Spokesly,  without  changing  his  expression,  put  down 
a  ten-franc  note  extra. 

"You  give  me  a  leetle  tip?"  said  the  waiter,  watching  the 
money  going  back  into  his  victim's  pocket.  But  he  had 
postponed  his  own  private  piracy  too  long. 

"I'll  give  you  a  bunt  on  the  nose  if  you  don't  get  away," 
muttered  Mr.  Spokesly.  And  he  added  to  his  friend:  "I 
must  go.     May  not  see  you  again,  eh?" 

"Very  likely  not,  very  likely  not.  You  see,  I  may  be 
transferred  to  the  Red  Sea  Patrol." 

"Well,  so  long.     Good  luck." 

He  breathed  more  freely  when  he  got  outside.  Sixty  francs 
for  a  quart  of  carbonated  bilge  and  a  racket  like  nothing  on 
earth. 

He  was  mortified  at  seeing  an  Englishman  posing  as  a  fool 
like  that,  but  he  was  honest  enough  to  admit  to  himself  that 
he  had  been  that  Englishman  over  and  over  again. 

"Why  do  we  do  it?"  he  wondered  as  he  was  borne  swiftly 


206  COMMAND 

over  the  water  by  the  launch.  And  the  married  men,  he 
reflected,  were  always  the  worst. 

*' Where's  your  ship?"  growled  the  petty  officer,  sidling 
along  the  engine  house  and  taking  one  of  Mr.  Spokesly's 
cigarettes. 

^^Kalkis,  Httle  Greek  boat  just  ahead,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly, 
slipping  a  couple  of  shillings  into  a  waiting  palm.  "And  look 
here,  can  you  wait  a  second  when  I  get  aboard  .^^  My  skipper 
wants  to  go  ashore." 

"Tell  him  to  double  up  then." 

Captain  Rannie  was  standing  on  the  grating  at  the  head  of 
the  gangway,  charged  with  a  well-rehearsed  monologue  on  the 
extreme  lack  of  consideration  experienced  by  some  ship- 
masters.    Mr.  Spokesly  ran  up  and  cut  him  short. 

"Hurry  up,  sir.  Boat's  waiting,"  and  before  he  was  aware 
of  it  Captain  Rannie,  with  one  of  his  shins  barked  in  getting 
aboard,  was  halfway  across  the  gulf. 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly  to  himself,  looking  towards  the 
houses.     "I  wonder  what's  going  to  happen." 


CHAPTER  XII 

AT  FIRST  it  seemed  as  if  nothing  would  ever  happen 
again.  There  were  no  electric  lights  on  the  Kalkisy 
^  although  she  had  a  very  fine  dynamo  in  her  engine- 
room,  because  one  of  her  engineers  in  time  past  had  cut  away 
all  the  wiring  and  sold  it.  The  donkey-boiler  fire  was  banked 
and  the  donkey  man  gone  ashore.  She  swung  at  anchor  in 
absolute  silence.  The  launch  was  half  a  mile  away.  Over 
the  Vardar  valley  was  a  glare  as  of  distant  conflagrations,  and 
along  the  front  shore  the  sparkling  entrances  of  the  palaces 
of  pleasure  from  which  Mr.  Spokesly  had  just  come. 

He  went  down  and  unlocked  the  door  of  his  cabin.  It  was 
much  cleaner  than  it  had  been  for  years,  but  smelled  of  new 
paint.  He  opened  the  scuttles,  hooked  back  the  door,  and  lit 
the  brass  gimbal-lamp.  His  tin  trunk  was  stowed  under  the 
bed-place.  Clean  fresh  canvas  was  on  the  floor  and  a  rag  mat 
by  the  bunk.  A  piece  of  lilac-tinted  toilet  soap,  which  is 
almost  indispensable  in  an  English  guest  room.  A  clean 
towel,  which  he  had  bought  himself  at  Stein's.  The  next 
room  was  a  bathroom,  but  it  was  not  yet  in  an  entirely  satis- 
factory condition.  It  had  been  used  to  keep  chickens  in  at 
some  time  and  had  also  served  as  a  store  for  the  steward. 
And  fresh  water  had  to  be  carried  from  the  pump,  as  all  the 
plumbing  had  been  cut  away  and  sold. 

Well,  it  would  do.  Mr.  Spokesly  opened  the  trunk  and 
began  to  lay  the  contents  in  different  drawers.  He  did  it 
clumsily,  as  a  matter  of  course,  so  that  things  of  silk  and 
cotton  were  crumpled  and  twisted,  and  he  regarded  his  re- 
sults dubiously.  He  decided  he  would  be  a  failure  as  a  lady's 
maid,  and  lighting  a  cigarette  ascended  to  the  deck.  A  fine 
thing,  he  reflected,  if  she  never  came  and  he  had  all  those 
fal-lals  and  frills  to  carry  about  the  ocean ! 

807 


808  COMMAND 

There  seemed  to  be  no  one  on  board.  And  it  suddenly 
occurred  to  him  that  this  might  be  an  actual  fact.  He  looked 
into  the  galley  and  found  no  one  there.  He  walked  forward 
to  the  bridge-deck  rail  and  blew  his  whistle.  Presently  up 
from  below,  and  framed  in  the  doorway  of  the  scuttle,  ap- 
peared an  alarming  phenomenon.  Its  hair  stood  in  conflict- 
ing directions,  a  large  moustache  cut  across  between  two 
round  black  eyes  and  a  red  mouth  full  of  yellow  teeth,  one 
cheek  was  covered  thickly  with  lather,  and  the  other,  already 
shaved,  was  smeared  with  blood. 

"What*s  the  matter?"  said  the  bosun. 

"Where's  the  watchman .5^"  asked  Mr.  Spokesly. 

"He's  down  here  talking  to  me." 

"What  are  you  doing,  shaving .f^" 

"Of  course  I  am.  What  did  you  think  I  was  doing? 
Cutting  my  throat?" 

"Looks  damn  like  it,"  muttered  Mr.  Spokesly,  and  saun- 
tered away  aft  to  look  at  the  shore.  The  indignant  appa- 
rition in  the  forecastle  scuttle  gradually  sank  from  view  like 
the  phantoms  in  old-fashioned  grand  opera,  and  was  replaced 
by  a  lumbering  creature  in  a  blue  jersey,  with  curling  blond 
hair,  and  carrying  a  bucket  of  soap-suds.  Mr.  Spokesly 
heard  him,  presently,  banging  about  in  the  galley. 

There  was  a  seat  aft  near  the  hand-steering  gear,  one  of 
those  old-fashioned  affairs  with  curiously  moulded  cast-iron 
ends  and  elaborate  teak  slats,  and  he  sat  down  there  with  the 
telescope  to  his  eye  watching  the  dark  mass  of  trees  and  roofs 
where  Mr.  Dainopoulos  lived.  Except  for  a  street  lamp 
shining  among  the  trees  and  an  occasional  blue  spit  from  a 
trolley-car,  he  could  discern  nothing.  Even  the  room  where 
Mrs.  Dainopoulos  usually  lay  was  not  lighted.  It  was  just 
about  this  time  that  Mr.  Spokesly  reached  the  lowest  point 
of  his  confidence.  The  magnetism  of  Evanthia's  personality, 
a  magnetism  which  made  him  feel,  in  her  presence,  that  she 
was  capable  of  achieving  anything  she  desired,  and  which  is 
sometimes  confused  with  the  faculty  of  command,  was  wear- 
ing away  in  the  chill,  dark  emptiness  of  the  night.  There  was 
a  quality  of  sharp  and  impersonal  skepticism  in  the  air  and  in 


COMMAND  209 

those  glittering  shore-lights  beyond  the  black  and  polished 
surface  of  the  Gulf.  There  was  now  no  wind;  the  evening 
current  and  breeze  had  faded  away,  and  both  the  water  and 
the  air  were  hanging  motionless  until  the  early  morning,  when 
they  would  set  eastward  again,  to  bring  the  ships*  bows 
pointing  towards  the  shore.  And  it  was  slack  water  in  the 
minds  of  men  floating  on  that  dark  and  sinister  harbour. 
There  were  other  men  sitting  and  looking  towards  the  shore, 
men  whose  nerves  had  been  worn  raw  by  the  sheer  immensity 
of  the  mechanism  in  which  they  were  entangled.  They  were 
the  last  unconsidered  acolytes  in  a  hierarchy  of  hopeless  men. 
They  had  no  news  to  cheer  them,  for  the  ships  sank  a  thou- 
sand miles  away.  They  endured  because  they  were  men,  and 
the  noisy  lies  that  came  to  them  over  the  aerials  only  made 
them  look  sour.  Great  journalists  in  London,  their  eyes 
almost  popping  from  their  heads  at  the  state  of  things  on 
the  sea  and  at  the  Front,  thumped  the  merchant  mariner  on 
the  back  in  bluff  and  hearty  editorials,  calling  him  a  glori- 
ous shell-back  and  earning  his  silent  contempt.  The  stark 
emphasis  placed  upon  his  illiteracy  and  uncouthness  did 
more  harm  than  good.  The  great  journalists  accepted  the 
Navy  and  the  Army  on  equal  footing,  but  they  felt  it  neces- 
sary to  placate  the  seaman  with  patronage.  They  were  too 
indolent  to  find  out  what  manner  of  men  they  were  who  were 
going  to  sea.  And  while  the  politicians  fumbled,  and  the 
Navy  and  Army  squabbled  with  each  other  and  with  their 
allies,  and  the  organized  sentiment  of  the  world  grew  hysteri- 
cal about  Tommy  and  Jack,  the  seaman  went  on  being  blown 
up  at  sea  or  rotting  at  anchor.  And  of  the  two  the  former 
was  invariably  preferred.  Mr.  Spokesly,  setting  down  the 
telescope  to  light  another  cigarette,  was  following  this  train 
of  thought,  and  he  was  surprised  to  come  on  the  conviction 
that  an  active  enemy  who  tries  to  kill  you  can  be  more  wel- 
come and  estimable  than  a  government  without  either  heart 
or  brains  who  leaves  you  to  sink  in  despair.  Indeed,  he 
began  to  carry  on  a  little  train  of  thought  of  his  own,  this 
habit  having  had  more  chance  to  grow  since  the  London 
School  of  Mnemonics  had  gone  to  the  bottom  with  the 


no  COMMAND 

Tanganyika  and  a  good  many  other  things.  He  said  to 
himself:  that's  it.  It  isn't  the  work  or  the  danger,  it's  the 
monotony  and  feehng  nobody  gives  a  damn.  Look  at  me. 
Now  I'm  on  my  own,  so  to  speak,  gone  out  and  started  some- 
thing myself,  I  feel  twice  as  chipper  as  I  did  when  I  was  on 
that  darned  Tanganyika  and  they  didn't  seem  to  know  where 
to  send  her  or  what  to  do  with  her  when  she  got  there.  I 
wonder  how  many  ships  we  got,  sailing  about  like  her,  and 
gettin'  sunk,  and  nobody  any  better  off.  They  say  there's 
ships  carryin'  sand  to  Egypt  and  lumber  to  Russia.  That's 
where  it  is.  You  trust  a  man  to  boss  the  job  and  he  can  make 
a  million  for  himself  if  he  likes;  you  don't  mind.  But  if  he 
muffs  it,  you  want  to  kill  him  even  if  he  is  a  lord  or  a  poli- 
tician. I  must  say  we  got  a  bunch  of  beauties  on  the  job 
now.     Good  Lord! 

It  might  be  imagined  that  having  found  so  fertile  and 
refreshing  a  theme,  Mr.  Spokesly  would  have  abandoned 
everything  else  to  pursue  it  to  the  exceedingly  bitter  end. 
But  he  no  longer  felt  that  cankering  animosity  towards 
authority.  He  saw  that  authority  can  be  made  exceedingly 
profitable  to  those  who  display  dexterity  and  resilience  in 
dealing  with  it.  Mr.  Spokesly  had  associated  long  enough 
with  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  for  example,  to  conceive  a  genuine 
admiration  for  that  gentleman's  astute  use  of  his  position  in 
the  midst  of  diverse  and  conflicting  authorities.  Mr.  Daino- 
poulos might  be  said  to  be  loaning  the  Government  the  tackle 
to  pull  down  the  branches  laden  with  fruit,  and  then  charging 
a  high  price  for  the  privilege  of  putting  that  fruit  into  his  own 
pocket.  Even  the  shipowners  of  England  could  teach  him 
nothing  about  profits.  Indeed,  later  on,  when  the  war  was 
over,  and  he  himself  was  expeditiously  disposing  of  his  inter- 
ests in  ships,  for  he  had  known  wars  before  and  the  slumps 
that  followed  them,  it  was  to  those  same  shipowners  that  he 
sold  some  of  his  most  deplorable  wrecks  at  the  top  of  the 
market,  rather  mystified  at  their  blind  eagerness  to  close  with 
him  at  any  price.  He  was  heard  to  say,  on  the  Bourse  at 
Alexandria,  on  that  always  cool  loggia  where  so  many  deals 
are  consummated  over  coffee  and  granitay  *'This  will  not  last. 


COMMAND  211 

You  take  my  advice.  Sell  that  ship  of  yours  to  the  English." 
And  his  dark-skinned  companion,  who  had  been  doing  very 
well  in  the  tobacco  trade  from  the  Piraeus  and  Saloniki,  would 
very  likely  sell,  at  a  price  that  made  him  wonder  if  the  English 
had  discovered  a  river  of  money  somewhere.  And  both  of 
them  would  continue  to  sit  there,  fezzed  and  frock-coated, 
playing  with  their  rosaries,  and  discussing  cautiously  the 
outlook  for  Nilotic  securities  in  the  event  of  the  English 
withdrawing.     .     .     . 

But  that  came  later.  Mr.  Spokesly  would  have  been  even 
more  impressed  if  he  had  been  aware  of  the  ultimate  desti- 
nation of  the  freight  he  had  been  stowing  so  industriously  into 
the  KalkiSy  or  of  the  total  emoluments  accruing  to  Mr.  Daino- 
poulos  from  that  freight  from  first  to  last.  The  old  adage 
about  turning  your  money  over  was  not  often  so  admirably 
illustrated.  Archy's  absurd  speculations  and  traffic  in 
villainous  drugs  seemed  microscopic  compared  with  the 
profits  to  be  made  by  a  good  business  man.  Which  is  per- 
haps one  of  the  most  embarrassing  criticisms  of  war  in  the 
modern  sense,  that  it  places  a  formidable  premium  upon 
the  sutlers  and  usurers,  so  that  they  now  sit  in  high  places, 
while  the  youths  of  invincible  courage  are  either  rotting  under 
wooden  crosses  in  France  or  looking  for  shabby  situations 
across  the  sea.  But  Mr.  Spokesly,  sitting  there  with  his  tele- 
scope, which  revealed  nothing,  was  not  criticizing  the  business 
men.  He  was  admiring  them,  and  wishing  the  military  and 
political  and  naval  men  could  be  half  as  clever  at  their  game  as 
the  business  man  was  at  his.  It  was  a  confusing  and  kaleido- 
scopic problem,  this  of  money.  As  soon  as  you  got  a  lot  of  it, 
he  reflected,  the  value  of  it  went  down  until  you  had  only  a 
little  and  then  the  value  of  it  went  a  little  lower.  And  then, 
when  you  were  occupied  in  some  way  which  prevented  your 
making  very  much,  the  value  crept  slowly  up  again.  That  is, 
unless  you  were  a  business  man,  when  of  course  you  turned 
your  money  over  and  scored  both  ways. 

Keeping  company  with  these  general  fancies  in  Mr. 
Spokesly 's  mind  was  a  speculation  concerning  his  own  part  in 
Evanthia's  adventure.    He  looked  at  his  watch.    Ten  o'clock. 


212  COMMAND 

By  looking  hard  through  the  telescope  he  could  make  out  a 
faint  radiance  from  the  upper  window  of  the  Dainopoulos 
house.  No  doubt  it  was  closed  and  they  were  sitting  there  as 
usual  with  one  of  the  Malleotis  family  to  keep  them  company. 
Then  what  was  he  supposed  to  do?  In  the  novels  he  had 
read,  the  hero  with  projecting  jaw  and  remarkable  accuracy 
with  firearms  was  never  in  any  doubt  about  what  he  was  to  do. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  he  thought  of  the  bosun. 

He  liked  that  person  more  than  he  would  have  admitted. 
Invariably  toiling  at  something  in  his  immense  canvas  apron, 
the  bosun's  globular  eyes  were  charged  with  an  expression  of 
patient  amazement  at  a  troublesome  world .  If  Diogenes ,  who 
lived  in  these  parts,  had  revisited  his  ancient  haunts  and  en- 
countered Joseph  Plouff,he  would  have  made  the  acquaintance 
of  a  peculiar  type  of  honest  man.  The  bosun  was  honest,  but 
he  had  been  bom  without  the  divine  gift  of  a  bushel  to  con- 
ceal the  blaze  of  his  probity.  But  in  spite  of  his  virtue  Mr. 
Spokesly  found  him  congenial.  In  the  midst  of  the  little 
community  of  seamen,  he  was  the  only  one  who  spoke  even 
passable  English.  He  was  the  man-of -all- work,  bosun, 
carpenter,  lamp-trimmer,  winchman,  storekeeper,  and  some- 
times acting  second  mate.  For  the  engineer,  with  his  Egyp- 
tian donkeyman  and  two  Maltee  firemen,  Plouff  and  his 
Scandinavian  sailors  had  a  fierce  contempt.  For  "the 
captinne,"  Plouff  entertained  an  amusing  reverence,  as 
though  Captain  Rannie's  mastery  of  monologue  appealed  to 
the  voluble  creature.  In  his  own  heart,  however,  there  was 
neither  bitterness  nor  that  despair  of  perfection  which  made 
Captain  Rannie  so  uncomfortable  a  neighbour.  In  his  own 
view  Plouff  was  an  ideal  bosun  who  was  continually  retriev- 
ing his  employers  from  disaster,  but  he  attributed  this  to  the 
fortunate  fact  that  "he  had  his  eyes  about  him  at  the  time'* 
rather  than  to  the  hopeless  incompetence  of  the  rest  of  the 
world.  And  it  was  characteristic  of  the  captain  that  he 
should  regard  Plouff  with  intense  dislike.  Plouff  therefore 
had  avoided  him  adroitly  and  sought  comfort  from  the  mate. 
Spiteri  was  not  able  to  appreciate  the  bosun.  When  Plouff 
explained  how  he  had  found  several  bolts  of  canvas  secreted 


COMMAND  213 

in  the  chain  locker,  Spiteri  was  not  impressed  because  he  had 
put  them  there  himself,  intending  later  to  take  them  ashore 
and  sell  them.  Also  Plouff  was  eternally  wanting  to  chip 
something,  which  did  not  suit  Spiteri  at  all.  If  you  once 
began  chipping  the  rust  and  scale  on  the  Kalkis,  you  might 
carry  something  away  and  what  good  would  that  do  you? 
And  Plouff,  in  his  big  apron,  would  be  told  to  go  to  Halifax, 
which  infuriated  him,  for  he  thought  Halifax,  Nova  Scotia, 
was  meant,  and  he  had  some  mysterious  feud  with  Nova- 
Scotiamen  generally. 

So  Mr.  Spokesly  found  him  congenial,  a  garrulous  monster 
of  unintelligent  probity,  and  it  occurred  to  him  suddenly  to 
enlist  the  bosun  in  this  enterprise.  Apparently  he  was  going 
ashore.  Mr.  Spokesly  wondered  how  he  was  going  to  manage 
it.  He  blew  his  whistle,  and  the  bosun,  who  had  his  head  in 
the  galley  door  talking  to  the  watchman,  withdrew  it  and 
called  out: 

**What's  the  matter.?" 

"Come  here.  Bos',  I  want  you." 

Plouff  knew  by  the  sound  of  the  word  "Bos'"  that  a 
friendly  conversation  was  contemplated  and  he  went  aft 
stroking  his  pomatumed  moustache  and  licking  his  chops  in 
anticipation,  for  he  loved  to  talk  to  his  superiors. 

"How  are  you  going  ashore?" 

"Me?"  said  the  bosun,  amazed.  "In  a  boat,  of  course. 
How'd  you  think  I  was  goin*?    In  a  flyin'  machine?" 

"Well,  Where's  the  boat?" 

"  Why,  down  there.  Here's  the  painter,"  said  Plouff,  laying 
his  hand  on  it,  very  much  bewildered. 

"But  I  thought  they  didn't  let  you  use  the  ship's  boats 
after  sundown." 

"Yes,  they  got  all  them  rules,  but  there's  always  easy 
ways,"  said  Plouff  with  gentle  scorn. 

"Where  do  you  land?" 

"Why,  right  here,"  and  Plouff  pointed  to  where  Mr. 
Spokesly  had  been  looking  with  the  telescope. 

"Is  that  so?    But  I've  seen  no  jetty." 

"No,  there's  no  jetty.     It  runs  alongside  of  the  garden. 


214  COMMAND 

you  see,  and  there's  big  doors  where  the  old  feller  used  to 
keep  his  boat.'* 

"What  old  feller?" 

"Why,  do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  know?  I  thought 
everybody  knew  that  place." 

"Well,  go  on.  Spit  it  out.  /  don't  know  all  the  joints  in 
this  town." 

"Neither  do  I,  but  I  know  a  good  many  of  'em.  Well,  you 
see  that  house  with  the  corner  like  a  turnip,  Turkey  style? 
That's  the  house.  It  used  to  belong  to  an  old  guy  who  lives 
way  over  there,"  and  Joseph  Plouff  waved  his  arm  eastward 
towards  Chalcidice.  "Big  farm  for  tobacco  he  got.  Old 
Turk  he  is,  I  s'pose.  Well,  he  has  this  house  here  and  he  had 
it  built  with  a  boat-house  so  the  boat  can  go  right  in  and  out 
o'  sight.  And  there  wasn't  any  other  way  in.  He  comes 
down  the  mountain,  gets  into  his  boat,  and  sails  over  to  his 
house  when  he  wants  to  have  good  time.  And  when  the 
house  was  lit  up  all  the  gels  in  the  town  gets  into  their  glad 
rags  an'  goes  off  in  boats  to  have  some  fun.  They  rows  up  to 
the  house,  and  the  old  feller  sittin'  on  his  balcony  gives  'em 
a  look-over  and  then  he  gives  the  word  to  let  'em  in.  Well, 
he  must  ha'  made  a  mistake,  same  as  we  all  do  at  times,  for 
one  night  he  had  a  row  with  one  o'  these  gels  an'  she  went 
for  him.  I  reckon  he  was  try  in'  to  get  her  to  go  home  quietly 
and  she  thought  he  was  try  in'  to  push  her  into  the  water 
instead  of  into  her  boat.  So  what  does  she  do  but  poke  his 
eyes  out.  You  have  to  watch  that  with  the  gels  here,"  said 
Plouff  sagely,  looking  at  Mr.  Spokesly.  "It's  easy  to  do  and 
they  got  the  way  of  it.  You  push  hard  here,"  and  he  put  his 
forefinger  against  the  outer  side  of  his  eye-ball,  "and  the  eye 
pops  out  like  a  cork  out  of  a  bottle.  That  was  a  fine  mix-up, 
I  guess.  They  tied  her  head  to  her  feet  and  shoved  her  into 
the  water,  and  then  they  had  to  get  the  old  feller  back  to  his 
farm  over  there.  Fine  mix-up  there,  too,  I  expect,  what  with 
his  wives  fightin'  to  get  at  him  and  him  not  bein'  able  to  see 
which  way  to  run.  Now  he  lives  out  there,  blind  and  roUin' 
in  money  since  the  war,  and  his  wives  keep  him  at  home  all 
the  time.     And  the  house  was  sold.     You  can  get  a  drink 


COMMAND  215 

there  now.  I  was  there  last  night.  American  bar  with 
Greek  drinks.'* 

"And  are  you  goin*  there  to-night.'^'* 

"Sure  I  am.     What  did  you  think  I  was  shavin'  for?" 

"Well,  listen  to  me,  Bos'.  I  wish  I'd  known  it  was  as  easy 
as  that.  You  see  I've  got  a  friend  who  wants  to  make  the 
trip  with  us,  but  we  can't  get  a  passport." 

"Why  can't  he  come  back  with  me?" 

"It's  a  young  lady.  Bos'." 

The  bosun  started  back  as  though  in  horror  at  these  words. 

"Is  that  the  way  the  wind  blows?"  said  he.  "Well,  this  is 
what  you'd  better  do.     .     .     ." 

"Can  we  get  a  boat  at  that  place?" 

"We  might,  easy  enough.  She  can  come  in  by  the  garden 
and  there's  a  boat  in  the  old  boat-house,  if  she  had  any  help. 
^Vhere's  she  goin'  to  sleep?" 

"In  my  cabin." 

"And  all  that  work  I  done  down  there  for  a  stranger?" 

"  No,  you  done  it  for  me.  And  I  done  it  for  this  lady  friend 
o'  mine.  She's  goin'  to  meet  her  sweetheart  in  Athens,  you 
understand." 

The  bosun,  whose  eyes  had  gradually  assumed  an  ex- 
pression of  having  been  poked  out  by  the  method  he  had 
spoken  of,  and  replaced  by  an  unskilful  oculist,  now  gave  an 
enormous  smirk  and  drew  himself  into  an  attitude  of  extreme 
propriety. 

"  Oh-ho !     But  the  captinne     .     .     ." 

"Never  mind  him  just  now.  I  have  a  reason  for  thinking 
he  won't  mind.  In  fact,  I  believe  he  knows  all  about  it  but 
pretends  he  don't,  to  save  himself  trouble.  Skippers  do  that, 
you  know.  Bos'." 

"You  bet  they  do!"  said  Joseph  Plouff  with  immense  con- 
viction. "And  then  come  back  at  you  if  things  go  wrong. 
I  been  with  hundreds  o'  skippers  and  they  was  all  the  same." 

This  of  course  was  a  preposterous  misstatement  and  of  no 
significance  whatever,  a  common  characteristic  of  people  who 
are  both  voluble  and  irresponsible.  Mr.  Spokesly  let  it  pass. 
The  riding-light  threw  the  bosun's  features  into  strange 


216  COMMAND 

contortions  as  he  stood  with  his  round  muscular  limbs  wide 
apart  and  his  arms,  tattooed  like  the  legs  of  a  Polynesian 
queen,  crossed  on  the  bosom  of  his  blue-and-white  check 
shirt. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?**  asked  the  chief 
officer  calmly.  "You  talk  a  hell  of  a  lot,  Bos',  but  you 
haven't  said  much  yet." 

"Because  you  ain't  give  me  a  chance.  You  ask  me  all 
about  that  American  bar  where  there  ain't  any  American 
drinks  and  I  had  to  tell  you,  didn't  I?  And  I  was  goin'  to 
sugges'  something,  only  you  wouldn't  listen." 

"What.?" 

"Go  yourself.  Come  with  me.  You  can  get  out  into  the 
street  by  the  garden.  It  used  to  be  a  movin'  picture  place, 
but  they  stopped  it  because  of  the  lights.  And  it's  mostly 
French  sailors  go  there.  American  bar,  see?  What  the 
matelots  call  hig'  lif.  I  speak  French,  so  I  go  there.  Now 
you  come  along  and  see  what  we  can  do." 

"And  leave  the  ship?" 

"The  ship  won't  run  away,  I  can  promise  you  that.  And 
the  watchman's  there  in  the  galley,  ain't  he?  I'll  get  my 
coat." 

"And  how  do  I  know  when  she'll  come,  supposing  she  does 
come  to  this  place  you're  talking  about?" 

"You  want  me  to  tell  you  that!"  said  the  bosun  in  a  faint 
voice,  hfting  his  broad  features  to  the  heavens  in  protest. 
"I  thought  you  knew,"  he  added,  looking  down  again  at  Mr. 
Spokesly. 

"Sometime  before  daylight,"  muttered  that^  gentleman, 
getting  up.  "I'll  go  with  you,  but  mind,  you  got  to  stand  by 
to  row  me  back  whenever  I  want  you.  Understand?  No  go- 
ing oflF  with  your  matelots.  Nice  thing,  if  anything  should 
happen  and  me  out  o'  the  ship." 

"All  right,  all  right.  You  don't  need  to  get  sore  with  your 
own  bosun,"  said  Plouff.  "I  can  tell  you,  you  might  have  a 
worse  one.  Here's  me,  sits  all  the  evening,  playin'  rummy 
and  one  eye  on  the  ship  from  that  American  bar,  and  all  you 
can  do's  get  sore.     What  do  you  think  I  am,  a  bum?    If  it 


COMMAND  217 

hadn't  been  for  me  havin'  my  eyes  about  me  in  Port  Said, 
them  A-rabs  would  ha'  stove  her  in  against  the  next  ship 
twenty  time.  Me  sittin'  up  half  the  night  makin'  fenders. 
Oh,  yes!" 

"Come  on  then.  You're  as  bad  as  the  Old  Man  when  it 
comes  to  chewing  the  rag.     Can  you  talk  French  Hke  that?  " 

"As  good  as  English.  Faster.  More  of  it.  I  know  more 
French  words  than  English." 

"Lord  help  us."  Mr.  Spokesly  poked  the  tiller-bar  into 
the  rudder  and  hung  the  latter  over  the  stern  of  the  boat, 
which  Plouff  had  been  hauling  along  to  the  gangway.  "Now 
then.     Got  a  lantern?     Don't  Hght  it.     Bear  away." 

Instructed  by  Plouff,  Mr.  Spokesly  steered  due  east  away 
from  the  ship  and  concealed  by  it  from  the  eyes  on  watch  on 
the  warships.  Then  after  half  a  mile  he  turned  sharply  about 
and  Plouff  slowed  down  until  the  boat  just  moved  through 
the  water  and  they  were  quite  lost  in  the  intense  darkness. 
Plouff  said: 

"Now  we  got  nothing  to  be  scared  of  except  searchlights. 
But  it's  only  Wednesday  night  they  work  'em." 

"Why  do  you  get  only  Frenchmen  at  this  place?"  asked 
Mr.  Spokesly. 

"Because  it's  near  their  hospital  and  rest-camp.  The 
English  are  all  down  by  the  Bersina  Gardens.  So  the  Fren- 
chies  go  to  talk  to  the  poilus.  French  sailors  don't  have 
much  truck  with  English  sailors,  you  can  bet." 

"Well,  you  wouldn't  if  you  couldn't  talk  to  them  either," 
retorted  Mr.  Spokesly.     "Now  where  do  we  go  in?" 

"Ship  the  rudder,"  said  the  bosun.  "I'll  fetch  round 
myself." 

They  were  now  in  the  profound  shadows  of  a  short  back- 
water formed  by  the  corner  of  the  old  cafe-chantant  and 
cinema  garden  which  had  been  fashioned  out  of  the  romantic 
dwelling  whose  earlier  history  Plouff  had  recounted  with  such 
relish.  The  big  doors  of  the  water  entrance  had  been  re- 
moved and  the  shed  itself  partly  boarded  over.  There  was 
no  one  in  sight,  and  only  a  small  tin  lamp  on  the  wall,  but 
there  was  an  air  of  recent  occupancy,  of  human  proximity,  of 


218  COMMAND 

frequent  appearances,  about  the  place.  A  boat  was  thrust 
half  under  the  planks,  and  the  door  at  the  back  had  a  black 
patch  where  many  hands  had  polished  it  in  passing  through. 
Beneath  the  door  shone  a  crack  of  bright  light.  PlouflF,  ship- 
ping his  oars,  brought  up  softly  alongside  the  other  boat,  and 
stepped  ashore  across  the  thwarts  with  the  painter  in  his 
hand. 

"Here  we  are,"  he  chuckled.  "Snug  as  a  bug  in  a  rug. 
Bring  her  in  under.     Make  fast.'* 

The  door  was  opened  about  six  inches  and  a  face  with  an 
exceedingly  drooping  moustache  peered  out  from  beneath  the 
slovenly  looking  cap  of  a  French  petty  officer  of  marine. 

*^Quest-ce  que  c'est  .^"  he  demanded. 

"  Comment  ga  va,  mon  vieux  I "  retorted  Plouff ,  advancing. 
''Mon  lieutenant — bon  gargon.  Oh-h,  mon  vieux y  ilfaut  que  je 
vous  dis  que  nous  avons  une  grande  affaire.  Oil  est  la  belle 
Antigone?'* 

**Chez  elle,'*  muttered  the  other.  ^'Entrez.  Bon  soir. 
Monsieur  Lieutenant.'* 

Mr.  Spokesly  walked  through  into  a  lofty  hallway.  A 
door  on  the  left  led  into  the  darkness  of  the  garden,  another 
on  the  right  opened  upon  a  large  chamber,  dimly  lighted  and 
bounded  by  a  lattice-work  terrace,  and  in  front  ascended  one 
of  those  imposing  staircases  which  the  Latin  inserts  into  the 
most  insignificant  edifices.  The  room  on  the  right  was 
simply  a  rough-and-ready  cafe,  with  a  small  bar  in  the  corner 
set  up  in  an  unfurnished  residence.  Upstairs  was  a  select 
gambling  hell  for  officers  only.  And  practically  French 
officers  only.  There  was  only  one  reason  why  English  officers, 
for  example,  did  not  visit  this  place.  They  did  not  know  of 
its  existence.  It  was  a  club.  Madame  Antigone  was  the 
caretaker  who  also  managed  the  canteen  on  the  ground  floor, 
and  encouraged,  by  her  formidable  discretion,  the  main- 
tenance of  a  small  corner  of  France  in  an  alien  land.  Not 
the  France  of  popular  fancy  with  cocottes  and  cancan  dancing 
and  much  foolish  abandon,  but  the  France  of  the  Cercle 
and  the  Casino,  sober-minded  devotees  of  roulette  and 
connoisseurs  of  sound  Hquor. 


COMMAND  219 

Some  of  the  latter  was  immediately  forthcoming.  Even 
Mr.  Spokesly,  whose  conception  of  a  drink  was  that  of  most 
English  and  Americans — a  decoction  of  no  ascertainable 
flavour  and  with  the  kick  of  a  vicious  horse — even  he  appre- 
ciated to  a  small  degree  the  body  and  generous  vintage  of  the 
wine  brought  to  their  table  by  a  soldier  in  hospital  dress.  He 
looked  round  as  he  drank.  There  were  men  of  all  ranks  of  the 
land  and  sea  forces,  clean-shaven  and  boyish,  ferociously 
moustached  and  obscured  by  short,  truculent  beards.  They 
played  dominoes  or  cards,  smoked  and  sipped,  or  conversed 
with  the  grave  gestures  which  are  the  heritage  of  a  thousand 
emotional  years.  They  were  not  demonstrative.  Indeed, 
the  French  Navy  is  so  undemonstrative  one  might  imagine  it 
recruited  entirely  from  the  Englishmen  of  modern  fiction. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  the  nature  of  their  profession  has  left 
its  mark  upon  them.  For  them  is  no  vision  of  conquest  or 
gigantic  death-grapple  with  a  modern  foe,  but  rather  the 
careful  guarding  of  a  remote  and  insalubrious  colonial  empire. 
It  has  made  them  attentive  to  fussy  details,  faithful  to 
fantastic  conceptions  of  honour,  partial  to  pensioned  ease  and 
married  life  if  one  escapes  the  fevers  of  Cochin  China  and 
Algeria.  Among  them  Plouff  was  accepted  as  a  weird  vari- 
ant of  undeniable  home  stock,  a  creature  who  led  a  double 
life  as  Englishman  and  Frenchman,  un  monstre^  a  grotesque 
emblem  of  the  great  Entente.  They  stood  about  him  as  he 
sat,  his  head  far  back  on  his  shoulders,  his  large  red  mouth 
open  beneath  the  great  moustache,  telling  them  the  story 
of  his  lieutenant's  incredible  gallantry.  They  listened  in 
silence,  glancing  deferentially  towards  Mr.  Spokesly  from 
time  to  time,  as  though  he  were  acquiring  a  singular  and 
heroic  virtue  in  their  estimation  for  his  audacity  in  fumbling 
with  a  woman's  destiny.  But  Mr.  Spokesly  himself  felt 
neither  heroic  nor  audacious.  He  was  uneasy.  He  inter- 
rupted the  eloquence  of  his  bosun  as  soon  as  he  had  finished 
his  drink.  He  had  a  picture  in  his  mind  of  Evanthia  waiting 
somewhere,  waiting  for  him  with  her  amber  eyes  smouldering 
and  ready  to  break  out  into  a  torrent  of  reproaches  for  his 
sluggish  obedience.     She  had  achieved  that  ascendancy  over 


220  COMMAND 

him.  He  was  conscious  of  a  species  of  mingled  terror  and 
delight  in  her  personaHty.     He  rose. 

"What's  the  matter?"  demanded  Plouff,  astonished. 

Mr.  Spokesly  regarded  him  with  considerable  impatience. 

"How  can  I  stop  here? "  he  inquired.  "You  ought  to  have 
more  sense,"  and  he  walked  away  towards  the  garden. 

Plouff  looked  round  at  his  circle  of  listeners,  as  though 
calling  them  to  witness  the  strenuous  nature  of  service  with 
the  English,  and  followed.  He  found  Mr.  Spokesly  pausing 
irresolutely  by  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  confronting  a  large 
woman  with  strongly  marked  brows  and  a  severe  expression 
who  was  descending  the  stairs  with  the  air  of  a  proprietress. 

"Ah,  Madame  Antigone,"  said  Plouff  in  hurried  French. 
"This  gentleman  is  the  lieutenant  of  my  ship.  He  has  an 
assignation  with  a  young  lady  who  lives  in  a  house  near  by." 

The  woman  regarded  Plouff  steadily  and  shook  her  head. 
She  was  turning  away  as  though  she  took  no  interest  what- 
ever in  the  matter. 

"This  is  not  a  house  of  assignation,"  she  said  gravely, 
merely  recording  a  casual  fact. 

"Oh,  most  surely  not!"  ejaculated  the  eloquent  Plouff. 
"Madame  totally  misunderstands  the  situation.  All  that 
was  suggested  was  that  possibly  Madame  would  permit  the 
young  lady  to  enter  the  garden.  We  have  a  boat,  and  here 
am  I  to  row.  Madame,  to-morrow  we  sail;  it  is  the  last  night 
for  us.     You  can  understand,  Madame?" 

Whether  Madame  understood  or  not  was  locked  in  her  own 
broad,  handsome  bosom.  She  advanced  as  though  Joseph 
Plouff  and  Mr.  Spokesly  had  no  corporeal  existence,  shaking 
her  head  and  muttering  softly  that  it  was  impossible.  For  a 
second  the  defeated  bosun  stood  looking  after  her.  Im- 
possible? The  massive  form  of  Madame  Antigone  swam 
forward  into  the  cafe  and  passed  out  of  view.  So  it  was 
impossible.  Plouff  became  aware  of  his  chief  officer's  ex- 
pression. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  now?"  said  Mr.  Spokesly 
irritably,  going  towards  the  garden.  "Lot  of  use  you  are 
with  your  Frenchy  friends.     Let's  get  out  of  this." 


COMMAND  221 

"How  could  I  help  it?"  demanded  Plouff,  breaking  into  a 
trot  to  keep  up  with  Mr.  Spokesly's  anxious  stride.  "What's 
the  matter,  anyway.'^  You  don't  understand,  Mister.  This 
way,  round  here.  This  is  the  path.  Look  out,  you  might 
hit  your  head — very  low  here  under  the  trees.  No,  not  yet. 
Here's  the — that's  it.  Where  are  you  goin'  now.?*  To  the 
house  .^"  Plouff  whispered,  a  little  out  of  breath,  for  Mr. 
Spokesly  had  been  striding  along  oblivious  to  everything. 
What  was  the  matter  with  the  man.?     What  was  it  to  him  if 

the  girl  did  miss  her  passage  ?     Ah ! Plouff,  as  they  came 

out  upon  a  soft-earth  cart-track  that  led  away  into  the  dark- 
ness, had  a  sort  of  spasm  in  his  brain.  Of  course !  This  was 
an  enlevement.  Ha!  What  a  wooden-headed  booby  he  had 
been  to  miss  an  obvious  thing  like  that.  Ho-ho !  Plouff  had 
a  wife  somewhere  in  the  world,  and  as  he  never  under  any 
circumstances  remembered  to  send  her  any  support,  he  was 
romantic  in  his  ideas  concerning  enlevements.  And  mysteri- 
ously enough,  Plouff  became  instantaneously  more  devoted 
to  the  task  in  hand,  in  spite  of  Mr.  Spokesly's  disgust.  That 
officer  realized  he  was  pressing  ahead  without  any  clear 
notion  of  his  future  actions. 

"I  wonder  what  Dainopoulos  'ud  think  if  he  saw  me  hang- 
ing round,"  he  mused.  "Nobody  on  the  ship,  too!  Well, 
here  goes."     And  he  whispered  to  the  attentive  Plouff. 

"Do  you  know  where  the  cars  are,  Bos'.^*" 

"Of  course  I  do.     What  do  you  take  me  for.?*" 

"Grt)  on,  then,  go  on.     I'll  know  the  house  if  I  see  it." 

Plouff  was  getting  excited. 

"And  she  come  down  with  you?"  he  demanded. 

"I  don't  know  yet,  man.     Wait." 

And  suddenly  they  emerged  upon  the  street. 

Mr.  Spokesly  paused  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall  enclosing 
the  house  they  had  left.  On  either  hand  extended  an  ob- 
scure and  empty  street.  From  that  retired  vantage  the 
suburbs  of  Saloniki  were  wrapped  in  a  peace  as  complete  as 
that  of  the  harbour.  A  faint  hum,  as  of  a  distant  trolley-car, 
came  along  the  wires  overhead.  Mr.  Spokesly  reflected 
quietly,  noting  the  landmarks,  getting  his  bearings.     The 


22«  COMMAND 

Dainopoulos  house  was  a  little  farther  on,  he  guessed.  As  he 
took  a  step  forward,  a  door  banged  some  distance  ofiF,  and  a 
dog  gave  a  few  ringing  howls. 

"Is  it  far?  "  asked  PloufI  in  a  tense  whisper.  Mr.  Spokesly 
looked  at  him.  He  was  very  much  excited,  and  looked 
foolish,  with  his  round  eyes  and  extraordinarily  pretentious 
moustache. 

"No,  I  don't  think  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly.  "I  got  an 
idea  it's  just  along  on  the  other  side."  And  then,  as  they 
moved  up  the  road  and  the  view  changed  somewhat,  opening 
out  on  a  famihar  clump  of  trees,  he  added,  "Yes,  it's  just 
along  here,"  and  mended  his  pace. 

And  he  advanced  upon  the  place  where  he  believed  Evan- 
thia  to  be  waiting  for  him,  in  a  mood  of  mingled  fear  and 
pleasure.  Perhaps  there  was  shame  in  it,  too,  for  he  almost 
felt  himself  blush  when  he  thought  of  himself  sitting  there  on 
the  Kalkis  waiting.  And  but  for  an  accident — Plouff  was  the 
accident — ^he  might  have  been  waiting  there  still.  He  grew 
hot.  He  saw  that  his  long  habitude  of  regarding  women  as 
purchasable  adjuncts  to  a  secular  convenience  had  corrupted 
his  perception  of  character.  Why  had  he  not  seen  immedi- 
ately that  she  would  expect  him  to  carry  out  the  whole 
enterprise?  Where  had  his  wits  been,  when  the  amber  eyes 
smouldered  and  broke  into  a  lambent  flame  that  seemed  to 
play  all  round  his  heart?  That  was  her  way.  She  never 
supplicated,  evoking  a  benign  pity  for  her  pathetic  and  re- 
gretted womanhood.  Nor  did  she  storm  and  rail,  getting 
what  she  desired  as  the  price  of  repose.  She  simply  accepted 
the  responsibility  with  a  flickering  revelation  of  her  soul  in 
one  glance  from  those  amber  eyes.  And  left  him  to  divine 
the  purpose  in  her  heart.  He  thought  of  all  this  in  the  few 
moments  as  he  moved  up  to  the  house  with  the  active  and 
enthusiastic  Plouff  at  his  heels  like  a  shadow.  And  he  won- 
dered if  she  would  keep  him  waiting.  That,  at  any  rate,  was 
not  one  of  her  faults. 

There  was  no  light  in  the  front  of  the  house.  That  was 
not  promising.  He  crossed  over  and  took  an  oblique  view 
of  the  windows  behind  the  trees  of  the  garden.     And  she  was 


COMMAND  223 

there.  He  saw  a  shadow  on  the  ceiling,  a  shadow  that  moved 
and  halted,  with  leisurely  deliberation.  He  walked  to  the 
gate  and  tried  it.     It  was  shut. 

"Listen  Bos',"  he  said,  holding  that  person's  shoulder  in  a 
firm  grip.  "You've  got  to  give  me  a  leg  over.  Then — 
listen  now — ^go  back  and  get  the  boat  out,  and  lay  off  the  end 
of  the  garden.     Savvy?" 

"Yes.  Now,  up  you  go,"  said  Plouff.  "What  do  you 
want  to  hold  me  like  that  for?     Over?" 

There  was  no  need  for  the  question  or  for  a  reply.  Mr. 
Spokesly,  assisted  by  an  energetic  heave  from  Plouff,  flew 
over  the  gate  and  came  down  easily  on  the  flags  below.  He 
heard  Plouff  depart  hastily,  and  went  round  into  the  garden 
to  discover  what  he  might  have  to  do.  It  was  easy  to  push 
along  the  path  and  look  up  at  the  lighted  window.  She  was 
there.  He  could  see  her  arms  above  her  head  busy  with  her 
hair.  While  he  stood  there  she  took  a  large  hat  from  her 
head  and  presently  replaced  it  by  a  black  toque  with  a  single 
darting  cock's  feather  athwart  it.  Once  he  saw  her  face,  stern 
and  rigid  with  anxiety  over  the  choice  of  a  hat.  And  he  saw, 
when  he  flung  a  small  piece  of  earth  gently  against  the  win- 
dow, the  arms  stop  dead  in  their  movements  and  remain 
there  while  she  listened.  Again  he  flung  a  piece  of  earth,  a 
soft  fragment  that  burst  silently  as  it  struck  the  glass,  and  the 
light  went  out. 

Mr.  Spokesly  bethought  him  of  the  gate  over  which  he  had 
come  and  he  made  his  way  back  to  see  if  it  could  be  opened 
from  within.  It  could,  and  he  opened  it.  And  then,  just 
as  he  was  preparing  for  a  secret  and  stealthy  departure, 
bracing  his  spirit  for  the  adventure  of  an  enlevement,  the  door 
behind  him  opened  and  shut  with  some  noise,  and  Evanthia 
Solaris,  buttoning  a  glove,  stood  before  him,  a  slender  black 
phantom  in  the  darkness. 

He  was  dumfounded  for  a  moment,  until  the  full  signifi- 
cance of  her  action  was  borne  in  upon  him.  She  had  sur- 
rendered her  destiny  to  his  hands  after  all.  It  was  with 
him  that  she  was  willing  to  venture  forth  into  unknown 
perils.     What  a  girl !    He  experienced  an  accession  of  spirit- 


224  COMMAND 

ual  energy  as  he  advanced  hurriedly  in  the  transparent 
obscurity  of  the  garden.  She  did  not  move  as  he  touched 
her  save  to  continue  buttoning  a  glove. 

"Ready?"  he  whispered. 

She  gave  him  an  enigmatic  glance  from  behind  the  veil  she 
was  wearing  and  thrust  her  body  slightly  against  his  with  a 
gesture  at  once  delicate  and  eloquent  of  a  subtle  mood.  She 
was  aware  that  this  man,  come  up  out  of  the  sea  like  some 
fabled  monster  of  old,  to  do  her  bidding,  was  the  victim  of  her 
extraordinary  personality;  yet  she  never  forgot  that  his 
admiration,  his  love,  his  devotion,  his  skill,  and  his  endurance 
were  no  more  than  her  rightful  claim.  Incomparably 
equipped  for  a  war  with  fate,  she  regarded  men  always  as  the 
legionaries  of  her  enemy.  And  that  gesture  of  hers,  which 
thrilled  him  as  a  signal  of  surrender,  was  a  token  of  her 
indomitable  confidence  and  pride. 

"For  anything,"  she  said,  smiling  behind  her  veil.  "What 
have  you  done?" 

"I've  got  a  boat,"  he  whispered.  " It's  all  ready .  Where 
are  they?"     He  pointed  to  the  house. 

"Asleep,"  she  said,  pulling  the  gate  open. 

"  Don't  make  so  much  noise,"  he  begged.  She  stopped  and 
turned  on  him. 

"I  can  go  out  if  I  hke,"  she  said  calmly.  "You  think  I  am 
a  slave  here?" 

"Oh,  no,  no.     You  don't  understand     .     .     ."  he  began. 

"I  understand  you  think  I  am  afraid  of  these  people. 
Phtt!     Where  is  the  carriage?" 

"It's  only  a  little  way.  You  can't  get  boats  down  at  the 
landings.     Just  a  little  way." 

"All  right."  She  pulled  the  gate  to  and  the  latch  clicked. 
And  then  she  put  her  gloved  hand  lightly  on  his  arm,  trusting 
her  fate  to  him,  and  they  walked  down  the  road  in  the  dark- 
ness. 

"Have  you  got  everything?"  he  asked  timidly. 

She  did  not  reply  at  once.  She  was  looking  steadily  ahead, 
thinking  in  a  rapt  way  of  the  future,  which  was  full  of  im- 
mense possibilities,  and  which  she  was  prepared  to  meet  with 


COMMAND  225 

a  dynamic  courage  peculiarly  her  own.  And  at  that  mo- 
ment, though  her  hand  lay  on  the  arm  of  this  man  who  was 
to  take  her  away,  she  was  like  a  woman  walking  alone  in  the 
midst  of  perils  and  enemies,  towards  a  shining  destiny,  her 
delicate  body  sheathed  in  the  supple  and  impenetrable  ar- 
mour of  an  inherited  fortitude.     She  smiled. 

"Everything,"  she  murmured  in  French.  "Have  I  not 
thee?"  And  she  added,  so  that  his  face  cleared  of  doubt  and 
he,  too,  smiled  proudly:  "Ah,  yes.  What  do  we  need,  if  we 
have  each  other.?  "  He  strained  her  suddenly  to  him  and  she 
stood  there  looking  up  at  him  with  her  bright,  fearless,  amber 
eyes  smiling.     She  said: 

"The  boat?" 

They  reached  the  corner  and  for  an  instant  the  dark  un- 
famiharity  of  the  lane  daunted  her. 

"Down  here,  dear,"  he  said,  holding  her  close.  "I  have  a 
man  I  can  trust  in  the  boat.     He's  waiting." 

They  advanced  silently,  turning  the  corners  of  the  lane  and 
stooping  beneath  the  boughs  of  the  sycamores.  Her  faint 
adumbration  of  doubt  inspired  in  him  an  emotion  of  fiery 
protectiveness.  For  a  moment,  while  they  were  among  the 
trees  in  the  garden,  they  halted  and  stood  close  together. 
The  door  swung  open,  letting  out  a  long  shaft  of  yellow  light 
for  an  instant,  showing  up  in  sharp  silhouette  a  chair,  a  table, 
some  garbage,  and  a  startled  cat.  And  closed  again  with  a 
bang  and  a  rattle  that  mingled  with  the  steps  of  someone 
going  off  up  the  lane. 

"What  is  this  place?"  she  whispered,  looking  up  into  the 
sky  for  the  outline  of  the  roof.  "Ah,  yes!"  she  said,  noting 
the  bulging  cupola  on  the  tower.     "I  see." 

"You  know  about  this  place?"  he  asked  as  they  reached 
the  low  parapet  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  She  pressed 
his  arm  in  assent.  She  did.  Women  always  know  those 
facts  of  local  history.  Evanthia  recalled,  looking  out  over 
the  obscure  and  shadowy  waters  of  the  Gulf,  the  tale  of  that 
old  votary  of  pleasure.  Men  were  like  that.  Behind  her 
infatuation  for  the  gay  young  person  supposed  to  be  in 
Athens,  she  cherished  a  profound  animosity  towards  men. 


226  ^  COMMAND 

She  stood  there,  a  man's  arm  flung  tensely  about  her,  another 
man  cautiously  working  the  boat  in  beneath  where  she  stood, 
the  blood  and  tissues  of  her  body  nourished  by  the  exertions 
of  other  men,  meditating  intently  upon  the  swinish  proclivi- 
ties of  men.  She  even  trembled  slightly  at  the  thought  of 
those  proclivities,  and  the  man  beside  her  held  her  more 
closely  and  soothed  her  with  a  gentle  caress  because  he 
imagined  she  was  the  victim  of  a  woman's  timidity. 

*' It's  all  right,  dear,"  he  murmured.  "Now  I'll  get  down." 
He  stooped  and  cautiously  lowered  himself  into  the  boat, 
which  rose  and  fell  in  a  gentle  rhythm  against  the  sea-wall. 
And  for  a  moment  Evanthia  had  a  slight  vertigo  of  terror. 
She  found  herseK  suddenly  alone.  That  arm — it  had  sus- 
tained her.  She  looked  down  and  descried  Mr.  Spokesly 
standing  with  his  arms  extended  towards  her. 

"Quick,  dear!  Now!"  His  face  showed  a  white  plaque  in 
the  darkness;  face  and  hands  as  though  floating  up  and  down 
below  her  disembodied,  and  the  faint  tense  whisper  coming 
up  mysteriously.  She  felt  the  rough  coping  with  her  fingers 
and  leaned  over  towards  the  face. 

"Hold  me!"  she  breathed,  and  swung  herself  over.  She 
felt  his  hands  grip  firmly  and  closing  her  eyes,  she  leaned 
backward  into  the  void,  and  let  go. 

"Now  push  off.  Bos',"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  holding  her  in  his 
arms.  "We're  away."  He  set  her  down  and  took  the  tiller. 
"Easy  now,  Bos',"  he  added,  breathing  hard. 

Plouff,  his  eyes  protruding  with  decorous  curiosity,  pulled 
out  and  began  to  row  cautiously  into  the  darkness.  It  was 
done.  She  sat  on  a  thwart,  her  gloved  hands  folded  in  her 
lap,  demure,  collected,  intoxicating.     It  was  done. 

"All  right  now?"  he  whispered  exultingly.  She  looked  at 
him,  an  enigmatic  smile  on  her  veiled  face,  and  touched  his 
knee.  His  tone  was  triumphant.  He  imagined  he  was  doing 
all  this,  and  she  continued  to  smile. 

"Ah,  yes!"  she  breathed.     "Always  all  right,  with  you." 

He  pressed  her  hand  to  his  lips.     She  let  him  do  this. 

"The  ship?"  she  said  gently. 

"Soon,"  he  said.     "We  must  be  careful.    Tired?" 


COMMAND  227 

"  A  little.     Where  is  the  ship?  '* 

"That  is  her  light.     We  go  this  way — keep  out  of  sight.'* 

"How  long?" 

"Soon,  soon." 

She  became  trustful  as  they  turned  and  made  for  the  ship. 
PloufF,  stifling  his  desire  to  proclaim  his  incomparable  ef- 
ficiency, brought  up  imperceptibly  against  the  grating  and, 
stepping  out,  crept  intelligently  up  the  ladder  to  make  sure 
of  the  watchman.  That  person  was,  as  Plouff  expected, 
drowsing  comfortably  over  the  galley  fire.  He  tiptoed  to 
the  bulwarks  and  whispered: 

"Come  up.    All  clear!" 

Mr.  Spokesly  drew  Evanthia  upon  the  gangway  and 
guided  her  steps  upward.  Plouff  stood  at  the  top,  his  head 
thrust  forward  and  his  hand  gripping  the  bulwark  as  though 
about  to  fling  himself  upon  them.  His  globular  eyes  and 
glossy  curling  moustache  made  him  look  like  some  furtive 
and  predatory  animal.  He  slipped  down  the  gangway,  got 
into  the  boat,  and  pushed  off.  Plouff  was  off  to  have  a  night 
free  from  responsibility.  His  chief  oflScer  was  on  board. 
SacrS!  His  chief  officer  had  joli  gotU*  And  he,  Plouff,  had 
his  eyes  about  him.  And  his  wits.  There  was  something 
behind  this.     So,  not  a  word ! 

And  the  two  passengers,  whom  he  had  transported  so  neatly 
and  without  arousing  either  the  watchman  or  the  suspicious 
picket-boats,  went  into  the  cabin  and,  after  closing  the  door, 
Mr.  Spokesly  lit  the  swinging  lamp.  Evanthia  looked  about 
her. 

"A  ship,"  she  said  absently,  revolving  the  novel  idea  in  her 
mind. 

"You  must  go  to  bed,"  said  he  gravely.  "And  you  must 
stay  down  in  there  until  I  tell  you  it  is  all  clear.  Do  you 
understand?" 

"Yes,  I  understand." 

"I'll  show  you,"  he  said,  and  he  carefully  piloted  her  down 
the  companion.  She  leaned  forward  daintily  to  peer  as  he  lit 
her  lamp. 

"It's  the  best  I  could  do,"  he  whispered. 


228  COMMAND 

"Beautiful.  Tck!"  she  saw  her  clothes  in  the  drawer  he 
opened  and  patted  his  arm.  She  regarded  him  curiously,  as 
though  seeing  him  in  a  fresh  light.  "You  are  very  good  to 
me." 

"Easy  to  be  that,"  he  muttered,  holding  her  and  breathing 
heavily.     "Good-night!" 

He  closed  the  door  and  strode  away  to  the  companion,  and 
he  was  about  to  mount  when  a  thought  struck  him.  She 
must  keep  her  door  locked,  in  case  somebody  came  down. 
He  walked  back. 

And  as  he  put  out  his  hand  to  open  the  door  again  to  tell 
her  this,  he  heard  the  key  grind  in  the  lock. 

He  paused,  and  then  went  away  up,  and  very  thoughtful, 
turned  in. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

FROM  his  conspicuous  post  on  the  forecastle  Mr. 
Spokesly  watched  the  elderly  lieutenant — ^his  old 
friend  whom  he  had  met  at  Floka's — descend  the 
ladder  into  his  launch.  The  ship  was  already  moving,  the 
anchor  was  awash,  and  the  elderly  lieutenant  wavered  some- 
what as  he  put  out  his  hands  to  grasp  the  rail  running  along 
the  cabin  of  his  launch.  It  was  evening,  and  he  was,  Mr. 
Spokesly  could  see,  adequately  full.  Indeed,  he  had  been 
reinforced  by  more  than  one  whiskey  and  soda  before  he  had 
arrived  with  the  captain's  sailing  orders.  And  Captain 
Rannie,  who  was  watching  him  as  though  hoping  he  might 
by  some  fortunate  turn  of  fate  slip  into  the  water  and  vanish 
for  ever,  had  placed  a  bottle  of  whiskey  and  a  syphon  at  his 
elbow  in  the  cabin  and  permitted  him  to  help  himself.  The 
old  fellow  had  been  very  full  of  a  triumph  he  had  achieved 
over  the  authorities.  He  had  been  transferred  to  the  Trans- 
port OflSce,  where  it  was  evident  they  needed  an  experienced 
ship's  oflScer  to  keep  a  general  eye  upon  things.  All  very 
well,  these  naval  people,  in  their  way — here  he  filled  his  glass 
again — but  what  did  they  know  about  our  work?  Nothing! 
The  soda  shot  into  the  glass,  cascading  all  over  the  table. 
He  drank.  Incredible,  absolutely  incredible  what  queer 
things  these  people  thought  up.  Told  him  to  run  round  and 
round  the  White  Tower  for  the  duration  of  the  war!  Him! 
An  experienced  officer!  Nice  thing  that,  now!  He  drank 
again  and  refilled  his  glass.  But  he  had  been  trans- 
ferred.    .     .     . 

Captain  Rannie  sat  out  this  sort  of  thing  for  over  half  an 
hour  and  then  went  up  on  the  bridge  and  pulled  the  whistle 
lanyard.    The  Kalkis  uttered  a  yelp,  followed  by  a  gargling 

229 


230  COMMAND 

cry  ending  in  a  portentous  hiccough.  Mr.  Spokesly  re- 
marked: 

"They  are  signalHng  to  heave  up,  sir." 

"Then  heave  up,"  Captain  Rannie  had  snapped,  and  had 
run  down  again.  He  found  the  elderly  lieutenant  smiling 
and  refilling  his  glass.  He  did  not  see  the  expression  of 
impatience  on  the  captain's  features  as  he  entered. 

"Anchor's  coming  up,"  the  captain  said  in  a  distinct  tone. 
"Steward,  take  the  glasses."  He  gathered  up  the  papers, 
muttering,  and  went  down  to  his  room.  This  sudden  ces- 
sation of  hospitality  penetrated  the  old  lieutenant's  con- 
sciousness. He  rose  up  and  went  out  to  the  gangway,  and 
it  was  there  Mr.  Spokesly  saw  him.  It  could  not  have  been 
better,  the  chief  officer  remarked  to  himself.  The  old  souse 
had  turned  up  most  providentially.  The  long-nosed  quarrel- 
some creature  who  usually  came  out  to  the  transports,  and 
who  always  found  out  everything  that  was  going  on,  was  sick 
in  the  hospital  out  on  the  Monastir  Road.  The  vessel  gath- 
ered speed.     They  were  away. 

And  Captain  Rannie,  who  now  appeared  on  the  little 
bridge  in  company  with  a  yellow-haired  man  at  the  wheel, 
was  in  a  mood  in  which  a  much  larger  bridge  would  have  been 
a  comfort  to  him.  The  binnacle  interrupted  his  headlong 
march  from  side  to  side,  his  head  down,  his  hands  in  his 
trouser  pockets.  He  would  swing  round  suddenly  and 
plunge  across  as  though  he  had  a  broad  thoroughfare  ahead 
of  him.  At  the  binnacle  he  had  to  turn  a  little  and  edge  past 
it  before  he  could  take  three  more  strides  and  bring  up  against 
the  end.  Mr.  Spokesly,  who  was  finishing  up  on  the  fore- 
castle, noted  his  Commander's  movements  and  asked  himself 
the  cause  of  the  agitation. 

For  Captain  Rannie  was  agitated  beyond  his  customary 
disapproval  of  mankind.  He  had  had  a  long  conference  with 
his  employer  that  morning  before  coming  on  board.  They 
might  not  see  each  other  again  for  some  time,  it  was  under- 
stood. The  interview  had  taken  place  in  the  little  office  in 
the  Rue  Voulgaroktono,  off  the  Place  de  la  Libert^,  and  the 
usual  crowds  had  thronged  the  street  while  they  talked.     Mr. 


COMMAND  231 

Dainopoulos  had  gone  on  with  his  business,  rising  continually 
to  change  money,  and  once  he  went  away  for  half  an  hour 
to  look  at  some  rugs.  Captain  Rannie  had  remained  coiled 
up  on  his  chair,  smoking  cigarette  after  cigarette,  listening 
to  his  owner's  remarks,  his  eyes  wandering  as  though  in  search 
of  some  clue. 

"You  understand,"  Mr.  Dainopoulos  had  said  in  the  course 
of  this  conversation,  "I'm  doing  this  for  my  wife.  My  wife 
likes  this  young  lady  very  much.  Another  thing,  the  young 
lady's  mother,  she's  married  again.  Man  with  plenty  of 
money.     I  do  his  business  for  him  here." 

Captain  Rannie  looked  hard  at  a  crack  in  the  linoleum  near 
his  foot. 

"I'm  sure  it  doesn't  make  the  slightest  difference  to  me.  I 
know  nothing  about  it,  nothing  at  all.  My  chief  oflBcer  was 
going  to  say  something  to  me  this  morning  and  I  shut  him 
up  at  once.  I  knew  perfectly  well  from  the  very  first  there 
was  something  like  this  in  the  wind  and  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  have  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  it.  As  master  of  the  vessel 
it's  impossible  .  .  .  you  can  quite  understand  .  .  . 
eh.?" 

"That's  all  right,"  replied  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  looking  at  his 
open  palm.  "No  passport.  Once  you  get  outside,  no 
matter.  The  young  lady,  she  give  me  a  paper.  She  loves 
my  wife.  She  gives  everything  she  may  have  to  my 
wife." 

"Which  isn't  much,  according  to  what  you  told  me  before. 
You  grumbled  to  me,  and  said  in  so  many  words  she  cost  you 
a  lot  of  money  to  keep  for  a  companion  to  your  wife." 

Mr.  Dainopoulos  stared  hard  at  his  captain's  sneering  face. 

"That  was  before  her  mother  got  married  again.  Miss 
Solaris,  she  tell  me  her  mother  want  somebody  to  look  after 
the  farms,  by  and  by." 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  anything  about  it,"  burst  out  Cap- 
tain Rannie,  turning  round  in  his  chair  so  that  he  could  hear 
better. 

"And  she  say,  she  say,"  went  on  Mr.  Dainopoulos  steadily, 
"her  mother  perhaps,  you  understand,  some  women  have 


232  COMMAND 

one,  two,  three,  four  husband,  you  see?  Well,  her  mother 
want  a  good  man  of  business.  So  Miss  Solaris  she  sign  a 
paper  for  me.     She  give  everything  to  my  wife." 

"Everything!     Which  is  nothing,  I've  no  doubt." 

"Ah-h!  Not  nothing.  I  sell  his  tobacco  now,  and  it's  not 
nothing,  I  can  tell  you.  No!  By  and  by.  Miss  Solaris, 
now  her  mother  marry  again,  will  be  rich.  But  she's  crazy 
about  that  feller  I  told  you  she  had  here." 

"I  don't  remember  anything  about  it.  I  make  it  a  rule  to 
have  nothing  to  do  with  passengers.  I  expect  no  less," 
announced  Captain  Rannie,  alert  to  hear  every  word. 

"Well,  if  a  woman  wants  a  man,  she  gets  him,"  observed 
Mr.  Dainopoulos  gravely. 

"That's  true,  I  admit,"  was  the  unexpected  reply. 

"And  you  know  well  enough  she'll  find  young  Lietherthal 
easy  if  she  wants  him.  Me,  I  think  she'll  stay  round  with 
^im."  And  Mr.  Dainopoulos  jerked  his  finger  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Kalkis. 

Captain  Rannie  suddenly  reversed  himself  on  his  chair 
and  changed  legs,  uttering  a  sound  like  a  snort. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos.  "My  wife  she  thinks 
maybe  he  marry  her." 

Captain  Rannie  moved  his  foot  up  and  down  and  smiled 
unpleasantly. 

"No  hope  of  that,"  he  muttered. 

"  Yes! "  repeated  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  jumping  up  to  change  a 
five-pound  note  into  excellent  Greek  drachmas.  "Yes!  If 
she  wants  him  to  do  it,  it  will  be  easy  enough.  You  don't 
know  her." 

Captain  Rannie  was  heard  to  say  in  a  low,  hurried  tone  that 
he  didn't  want  to. 

Mr.  Dainopoulos  grinned,  which  did  not  improve  his 
appearance.  He  waved  his  fingers  at  his  captain  with  a 
gesture  indicating  his  jocular  conviction  that  he  did  not 
believe  it. 

"If  I  was  single  .  .  ."  he  began,  and  ended  with  a  loud 
"H — m!"  and  smiled  again. 

Captain  Rannie  flushed  dark  red  with  annoyance.     It  was 


COMMAND  233 

one  of  the  scourges  of  his  existence  that  he  had  to  let  men 
imagine  he  was  a  terrible  fellow  with  women.  He  !  And 
he  loathed  them.  He  would  strangle  every  one  of  them  if  he 
had  the  power.  Blood-sucking  harpies!  As  he  walked  the 
bridge  now,  keeping  a  sharp  eye  upon  the  buoys  of  the  nets 
which  were  coming  into  view,  he  recalled  the  shameful  way 
his  generosity  had  been  played  upon  by  those  women  of  his 
own  family.  Daughters  leagued  with  mother  and  aunt 
against  him!  But  he  had  paid  them  out,  hadn't  he?  Ha-ha! 
He  savoured  again,  but  with  a  faint  flavour  of  decay,  that 
often -imagined  scene  when  they  realized  at  last  that  he  was 
gone  and  gone  for  good.  That  was  the  way  to  treat  them. 
No  nonsense.  As  for  this  passenger  in  the  chief  oflScer's 
cabin,  he  hadn't  seen  her,  and  he  hoped  she'd  fall  overboard 
in  the  night,  and  a  good  riddance.  Good  heavens!  Hadn't 
the  master  of  a  ship  enough  responsibility  on  a  trip  like  this 
without  loading  him  down  with  a  creature  like  that?  In  any 
case,  she  must  remain  in  her  cabin.  Under  no  circumstances 
could  he  permit  her  on  deck.  To  be  meeting  her  on  the  stairs 
or  promenading — the  very  thought  made  him  feel  faint. 

Another  thing  Mr.  Dainopoulos  had  said : 

"A  very  good  thing  for  him,  too.  He  would  make  a  lot 
of  money — ^here."  Captain  Rannie  didn't  believe  it.  He 
had  arrived  at  a  complete  and  horrifying  conviction  that 
Europe  was  collapsing  of  its  own  weight,  that  the  only  hope 
for  anybody  was  to  do  as  he  himself  was  doing — sending  all 
his  money  to  the  Anglo  Celestial  Bank  in  Hong-Kong  to  be 
exchanged  for  silver  dollars.  That  was  the  place — China. 
Down  the  far  reaches  of  memory  he  saw  the  great  River, 
smooth  and  shining,  stretching  away  from  the  long  quays  of 
the  port.  No  storms,  no  pitching  or  rolling,  no  rocks,  no  find- 
ing of  one's  position.  And  when  he  stepped  ashore  in  spot- 
less yellow  pongee  silk  suit  and  great  sun-helmet,  he  was 
somebody.  Here,  in  Europe,  he  was  nobody.  Out  there 
once  more,  with  plenty  of  hashish,  he  could  face  the  fu- 
ture. 

He  had  said: 

"She  must  land  on  arrival." 


234  COMMAND 

**You  tell  her,"  said  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  "when  you  arrive. 
Put  her  ashore.  He'll  take  her.  You  will  find  plenty  of 
friends,  on  arrival." 

Captain  Rannie  received  this  information  without  ecstasy. 
He  did  not  go  sailing  about  the  world  in  search  of  friends. 
He  was  very  worried.  Mr.  Dainopoulos  favoured  him  with 
another  grin. 

"Why  not  take  her  ashore  yourself.?'* 

Captain  Rannie  shrank  as  if  from  a  blow. 

"You're  the  captain,"  added  Mr.  Dainopoulos. 

Captain  Rannie  turned  on  his  chair,  his  shoulder  hunched, 
as  though  to  ward  off  an  impending  calamity. 

"Why,  I  thought  you  liked  a  Httle  fun,"  said  Mr.  Daino- 
poulos, surprised. 

"Don't  speak  of  it,"  said  Captain  Rannie  in  a  stifled  voice. 
"  I  make  a  point  of  never  interfering.  Never  allude.  .  .  . 
Purely  personal.     .     .     ." 

"Well,"  said  his  owner,  in  some  perplexity,  "please  your- 
self. I  daresay  you  understand  what  I  mean.  You'll  have  a 
good  bit  of  time,  you  know,  on  arrival.  You  won't  have 
coal,  you  know,  to  go  very  far.     .     .     ." 

He  had  made  no  reply  to  this,  remaining  hunched  up  on  his 
chair,  staring  fixedly  at  the  floor.  Mr.  Dainopoulos  had 
stood  up,  looking  at  him  for  a  while. 

"You  can  do  it?"  he  had  asked  softly.  "Remember,  the 
papers  you  carry  will  mean  big  money  if  you  get  through." 

Still  no  answer. 

"It  is  easy,"  went  on  Mr.  Dainopoulos.  "You  do  not 
change  your  course,  that  is  all.     Keep  on.     East-southeast." 

Captain  Rannie  was  perfectly  well  aware  of  all  this,  but  he 
lacked  the  superficial  fortitude  to  discuss  it.  He  kept  his 
head  averted  while  his  employer  was  speaking,  his  long  wrist 
with  the  slave-bangle  hanging  over  his  knee.  Change  his 
course !  That  phrase  had  two  meanings,  by  Jove !  And  his 
course  was  east  to  China,  as  soon  as  he  could  collect.  He 
could  do  it.  Talking  about  it  to  a  man  who  was  making 
fifty  times,  a  hundred  times,  more  than  himself,  was  horrible 
to  him. 


COMMAND  235 

He  had  got  up  suddenly  and  put  on  his  hat,  harassed  lest 
this  sort  of  thing  should  bring  bad  luck,  for  he  was  super- 
stitious. At  the  back  of  his  mind  lay  an  uneasy  fear  lest  that 
girl  business  should  spoil  everything.  Who  could  foresee  the 
dangers  of  having  a  woman  on  the  ship?  His  ship!  He, 
who  could  not  bear  to  go  near  them  at  all,  who  treated  even 
elderly  creatures  with  brusque  discourtesy!  It  would  bring 
bad  luck. 

And  now  at  last  he  was  slipping  through  the  nets,  bound 
out  upon  a  voyage  of  almost  dismaying  possibilities.  It  was 
a  voyage  of  no  more  than  thirty-six  hours.  Captain  Rannie 
shivered  and  stood  suddenly  stock  still  by  the  binnacle  as  he 
thought  of  what  was  to  transpire  in  those  thirty-six  hours. 
Could  he  do  it.^^  He  was  beginning  to  doubt  if  he  could.  He 
said  to  the  helmsman: 

"Keep  her  south  and  three  points  east,"  and  went  into  the 
little  chart  room. 

The  iEgean  Sea  is  a  sea  only  in  name.  It  could  be  more 
accurately  described  as  a  land-locked  archipelago.  Emerg- 
ing from  any  of  the  gulfs  of  the  mainland,  gulfs  which  are 
nearly  always  narrow  and  reentrant  angles  with  walls  of 
barren  and  desolate  promontories,  one  can  proceed  no  more 
than  a  few  hours'  steaming  on  any  course  without  raising  yet 
more  promontories  and  the  hulls  of  innumerable  islands. 
Closed  to  the  southward  by  the  long  bulk  of  Crete  lying 
squarely  east  and  west  like  a  breakwater,  it  presents  its  own 
individual  problems  to  the  navigator,  the  politician,  and  the 
naval  commander.  The  last  named,  indeed,  was  finding  it 
anything  but  a  joke.  The  very  configuration  of  the  coast- 
line, which  rendered  a  sally  from  the  Dardanelles  a  feat  of 
extraordinary  folly  and  temerity,  made  it  a  unique  hiding 
place  for  the  small  craft  who  slipped  out  of  Volo  and  emerged 
from  the  Trikari  Channel  after  dark.  Submarines,  coming 
round  from  Pola,  could  run  into  rocky  inlets  in  the  evening 
and  would  find  immense  stocks  of  oil,  in  cans,  cached  under 
savage  rocks  up  the  ravines  of  almost  uninhabited  islets  of 
ravishing  beauty.  Gentlemen  in  Athens,  in  a  hurry  to  reach 
Constantinople,  took  aeroplanes;  but  there  was  another  way. 


236  COMMAND 

across  the  ^gean  Sea,  in  small  sailing  ships  which  were  fre- 
quently blown  out  of  their  course  at  night  and  would  take 
refuge  in  Kaloni,  whence  it  was  easy  to  reach  the  mainland  of 
Asia  Minor.  And  this  business — for  it  was  a  business — was 
so  profitable,  and  the  ships  of  war  so  few  in  proportion  to  the 
area,  that  it  went  on  gaily  enough  "under  our  noses"  as  one 
person  said  in  disgust.  Not  quite  that;  but  the  problem  did 
not  grow  any  simpler  when  there  was  yet  another  neutral 
government — with  ships — at  Saloniki,  a  government  that 
might  be  almost  hysterically  sympathetic  to  the  cause  of 
freedom  and  justice  but  which  might  also  be  imposed  upon 
by  conscienceless  and  unscrupulous  merchants  already  in 
collusion  with  other  unscrupulous  people  in  Constantinople. 
This  was  the  situation  when  the  Kalkis  turned  the  great 
headland  of  Karaburun  and  headed  south-southeast  on  the 
journey  from  which  she  never  returned.  Captain  Rannie, 
staring  at  the  chart  on  which  he  had  pencilled  the  greater 
part  of  her  course,  southeast  from  Cape  Kassandra,  bearing 
away  from  the  great  three-pronged  extremity  of  the  Chalci- 
dice  peninsula,  was  aware  that  she  would  not  return,  but  he 
found  himself  flinching  from  the  inevitable  moment,  drawing 
nearer  and  nearer  when  he  must  face  success  or  failure. 
When  he  asked  himself,  echoing  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  could  he 
do  it?    He  was  not  sure  that  he  could. 

From  this  reverie  he  was  roused  by  Mr.  Spokesly  appearing 
on  the  bridge.  For  a  moment  he  was  almost  betrayed  into  a 
feeling  of  relief  at  the  approach  of  a  companion.  He  opened 
his  mouth  to  speak  and  Mr.  Spokesly,  standing  by  the  door, 
stopped  to  listen.  But  nothing  came.  Captain  Rannie  knew 
the  secret  power  of  always  letting  the  other  man  do  the  talk- 
ing on  a  ship.  He  said  nothing.  He  crushed  down  the  sud- 
den craving  to  confide  in  Mr.  Spokesly.  He  wanted — ^just 
for  a  moment — to  call  him  in,  shut  the  door,  and  whisper, 
with  his  hand  on  Mr.  Spokesly 's  shoulder,  "My  boy,  we  are 
not  going  to  Phyros  at  all.     We  are  going  to     .     .     ." 

No,  he  stopped  in  time.  Why,  he  might  stop  the  engines, 
blow  the  whistle,  run  the  ship  ashore!  He  stepped  out  be- 
side Mr.  Spokesly  who  was  looking  down  at  the  compass,  and 


COMMAND  237 

wrote  some  figures  on  the  slate  that  hung  in  view  of  the 
helmsman. 

"That's  the  course/* 

"All  right,  sir." 

"  Call  me  at  midnight  if  necessary.  I'll  relieve  you  at  two 
o'clock.     Time  enough  to  change  the  course  then." 

"AU  right,  sir." 

Captain  Rannie  gave  a  rapid  glance  round  at  the  diverging 
shores  as  they  opened  out  into  the  Gulf,  and  turned  away 
abruptly.  Mr.  Spokesly  heard  him  descending,  heard  him 
unlock  his  door  with  a  series  of  complicated  clicks  and  rattles, 
heard  him  slam  and  relock  it,  and  finally  the  vigorous  jingle 
of  curtain  rings  as  he  drew  the  curtain  across. 

Mr.  Spokesly  struck  a  match  and  lit  the  binnacle  lamp,  a 
tiny  aflFair  which  shone  inward  upon  the  vibrating  surface  of 
the  card.  He  did  not  attempt  to  walk  up  and  down.  His 
moods  never  demanded  that  of  him.  Perhaps  it  would  be 
better  to  say  his  nature  did  not  demand  it.  He  was  feeUng 
much  better  than  he  had  been  all  day.  He  had  been  nervous 
about  Evanthia's  safety  in  that  room.  Had  had  to  make 
some  bullying  remarks  to  the  steward  about  trying  to  get  in 
where  he  had  no  business.  To  the  puzzled  creature's  stam- 
mering explanations  he  had  replied  with  more  bullying: 
"Keep  out.  Don't  come  down  here  at  all  until  I  say  you 
can."  The  steward  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  in 
addition  to  a  crazy  skipper  whose  room  smelt  of  hashish  and 
florida  water,  they  now  had  a  crazy  mate  who  had  something 
in  his  room  he  was  ashamed  of. 

And  yet  Mr.  Spokesly  need  have  had  no  fear.  Evanthia 
lay  in  her  bunk  all  day.  She  knew  perfectly  well  that  she 
must  remain  within  that  room  as  one  dead  until  the  ship  got 
outside.  So  she  lay  there,  her  eyes  half  closed,  listening  to 
the  sounds  of  men  and  machinery,  the  sunlight  screened  by 
the  yellow  curtain  tacked  over  the  little  round  window,  hour 
after  hour  all  day,  with  a  stoicism  that  had  in  it  something 
oriental.  It  was  about  an  hour  past  noon  when  there  had 
come  a  smart  thump  on  the  door.  She  had  got  out  and 
listened  and  the  sharp  whisper  outside  had  reassured  her. 


2S8  COMMAND 

And  when  she  had  slipped  the  bolt  and  opened  the  door  a  few 
inches,  Mr.  Spokesly  had  thrust  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  tin  box 
of  biscuits  upon  the  washstand  and  pulled  the  door  shut. 
And  she  had  got  back  into  the  bunk  and  lay  munching,  and 
smiling,  and  sometimes  kissing  the  emerald  ring  on  her 
finger,  the  ring  which  was  sailing  out  once  more  into  the 
darkness.  And  as  the  day  wore  on,  she  peeped  out  and  saw 
the  tug  go  away  with  its  empty  lighter,  heard  the  ominous 
thutter  and  thump  of  a  gasolene  launch  under  her,  and  heard 
the  arrival  of  strangers  who  entered  the  cabin  overhead.  And 
then  the  clink  of  a  glass. 

Her  reflections,  as  she  lay  in  that  bunk,  her  eyes  half 
closed,  were  of  that  primitive  yet  sagacious  order  which  it 
seems  impossible  to  transfer  to  any  authentic  record.  Her 
contact  with  reality  was  so  immediate  and  instinctive  that  to 
a  modern  and  sophisticated  masculine  intellect  like  Mr. 
Spokesly,  or  Mr.  Dainopoulos  even,  she  appeared  crafty  and 
deep.  As  when  she  locked  the  door.  She  had  not  imagined 
Mr.  Spokesly  returning.  The  whole  complex  network  of 
emotions  which  he  had  predicated  in  her,  modesty,  fear, 
panic,  and  coquetry,  had  not  even  entered  her  head.  She 
had  formidable  weapons,  and  behind  these  she  remained  busy 
with  her  own  affairs.  So,  too,  when  she  had  given  everything 
she  might  possibly  inherit  to  her  benefactress,  she  saw  in- 
stantly the  immediate  and  future  advantages  of  such  a  course. 
She  could  always  come  back,  when  the  detestable  French  had 
gone  away  home,  and  live  with  her  friend  again.  She  knew 
that  old  Boris  better  than  he  knew  himself.  She  knew  that 
he  would  do  anything  for  his  wife.  Also  she  knew  him  for 
one  of  those  men  who  stood  highest  in  her  own  esteem — men 
who  made  money.  For  men  who  did  not  make  money,  who 
were  preoccupied  mainly  with  women,  or  books,  or  even 
politics,  she  had  no  use.  She  did  not  like  Mr.  Dainopoulos 
personally  because  he  saw  through  her  chief  weakness,  which 
was  a  species  of  theatricality.  She  had  a  trick  of  imagining 
herself  one  of  the  heroines  of  the  cinemas  she  had  seen;  and 
this,  since  she  could  not  read  and  was  unable  to  correct  her 
sharp  visual  impressions  by  the  great  traditions  of  art,  ap- 


COMMAND  239 

peared  to  be  no  more  than  a  feminine  whim.  It  was  more 
than  that.  It  was  herself  she  was  expressing  at  these  mo- 
ments of  mummery.  She  had  those  emotions  which  are  most 
easily  depicted  by  grandiose  gestures  and  sudden  animal 
movements.  It  was  her  language,  the  language  in  which  she 
could  think  with  ease  and  celerity,  compared  with  which  the 
coordinated  sounds  which  were  called  words  were  no  more  to 
her  than  the  metal  tokens  called  money.  So  there  was  noth- 
ing extraordinary  in  her  quick  grasp  of  the  situation  which 
demanded  a  mouse-like  seclusion  for  a  while.  She  lay  still, 
even  when  footsteps  clattering  down  the  ladder  were  ob- 
literated by  the  spluttering  whoop  of  the  whistle.  And  then 
came  a  novel  and  all-embracing  sense  of  change,  a  mysterious 
and  minute  vibration  which  becomes  apparent  to  a  person 
situated  well  forward  in  a  vessel  beginning  to  move  under  her 
own  power.  Ah!  the  machine  a  vapeur,  the  vapor e,  the 
fire,  the  agitation  behind.  For  perhaps  a  single  second  her 
quick  flame-like  mind  played  about  the  incomprehensible 
enigmas  of  mechanism.  She,  for  whom  unknown  men  in 
distant  countries  were  to  scheme  and  toil,  that  they  might 
send  her  yachts  and  automobiles,  music-machines  and  costly 
fabrics,  jewels  and  intricate  contrivances  for  her  comfort  and 
pleasure,  had  the  conceptions  of  a  domestic  animal  concerning 
the  origins  of  their  virtues.  For  her  the  effortless  flight  of  a 
high-powered  car  ascending  a  mountain  road  was  as  natural 
and  spontaneous  as  the  vulture  hanging  motionless  above  her 
or  the  leaf  flying  before  her  in  an  autumn  wind.  Her  gracile 
mentality  made  no  distinction  in  these  things,  and  the  prob- 
lems of  cost  never  tarnished  the  shining  mirror  of  her  content. 
Upon  her  had  never  intruded  those  mean  and  unlovely  pre- 
occupations which  distract  the  victim  of  western  civilization 
from  the  elementary  joys  and  sorrows.  She  had  always  been 
fed  and  cared  for  and  she  had  no  shadow  of  doubt  upon  her 
mind  that  nourishment  and  care  would  ever  cease.  Her 
notion  of  evil  was  clear  and  sharp.  It  implied,  not  vague 
economic  forces,  but  individual  personalities  whom  she  called 
enemies.  Any  one  announcing  himself  as  an  enemy  would  be 
met  in  a  primitive  way.     She  would  back  into  a  corner,  spit- 


«40  COMMAND 

ting  and  biting.  If  she  had  a  weapon,  and  she  always  had, 
she  would  use  it  with  cool  precision.  She  lay  in  her  bunk 
now  without  a  care  in  the  world  because  she  possessed  the 
power  of  animating  men  to  bear  those  cares  for  her.  She 
could  inspire  passion  and  she  could  evoke  admiration  and 
remorse. 

She  saw  the  sun  going  down,  saw  him  disappear  as  into  a 
glowing  brazier  among  the  mountains,  and  the  coming  of 
darkness.  Evanthia  hated  darkness.  One  of  the  whims  she 
indulged  in  later  days  was  the  craving  for  a  shadowless  blaze 
of  light.  She  moved  in  her  bed  place  and  turning  on  her 
elbow  stared  at  the  door,  listening.  Someone  came  down  the 
stairs.  A  door  was  unlocked,  slammed,  and  locked  again. 
She  became  rigid.  Her  eyes  glowed.  Who  was  that.^^  She 
got  up  and  sought  for  matches  to  light  the  lamp.  But  she 
had  left  it  burning  the  night  before  and  the  oil  was  exhausted. 
And  her  watch  had  stopped.  She  put  on  her  black  dress  and 
did  her  hair  as  well  as  she  could  before  the  dark  reflection  in 
the  mirror.  She  had  very  little  of  that  self-consciousness 
which  reveals  itself  in  a  fanatical  absorption  in  minute 
attentions  to  one's  appearance.  She  was,  so  to  speak,  always 
cleared  for  action,  for  love  or  war.  She  twisted  her  dark 
tresses  in  a  knot,  thrust  a  great  tortoise-shell  comb  into  them, 
unlocked  the  door  and  went  out. 

It  was  thus  she  came  up  the  stairs  into  the  lighted  saloon 
and  encountered  the  steward,  who  was  laying  the  table  for 
supper.  He  was  leaning  over  the  table  setting  out  knives  and 
forks.  He  looked  over  his  shoulder  and  saw  a  face  of  extraor- 
dinary loveliness  and  pallor,  with  dark  purple  rings  under 
the  amber  eyes,  coming  up  out  of  the  gloom  of  the  stairway. 
He  dropped  the  things  in  his  hands  with  a  clatter  and  whirled 
round  upon  her,  his  jaw  hanging,  his  hands  clutching  the 
table. 

"Sh-h!"  she  said,  coming  up  into  the  room  and  advancing 
upon  him  with  her  finger  to  her  lips.  "Who  are  you.'^"  she 
added  in  Greek. 

He  was  about  to  answer  that  he  was  the  steward,  in  spite  of 
the  obvious  injustice  of  such  a  query,  when  the  outer  door 


COMMAND  241 

leading  to  the  deck  was  opened  and  the  young  man  named 
Amos  appeared  with  a  tray  of  dishes.  He  stepped  into  the 
httle  pantry  to  set  down  his  burden  and  then  made  a  pro- 
found obeisance. 

"Teh!"  said  the  lady.  "Who  is  this?" 

"The  pantryman,  Madama." 

"Tell  him  to  fill  my  lamp  with  oil." 

"Your  lamp,  Madama?"  quavered  the  steward.  "Is 
Madama  in  the  Captain's  room.?^     I  have  not  been  told." 

Evanthia  beckoned  Amos  and  pointed  down  the  stairs. 
"The  room  on  the  right, "  she  said.  "Fill  the  lamp  with  oil 
and  light  it.     Make  the  bed.     Go!" 

She  watched  him  descend. 

"Now,"  she  said  to  the  steward,  "is  this  the  way  you 
attend  to  passengers?  Bring  me  some  meat.  I  am  starv- 
ing." 

"Yes,  yes!  In  a  moment,  Madama."  He  hurried  to  and 
fro,  twisting  the  end  seat  for  her  to  take  it,  dashing  into  his 
pantry  and  bringing  out  dishes,  a  cruet,  a  napkin.  Evanthia 
seated  herself  and  began  to  devour  a  piece  of  bread.  She 
watched  the  steward  as  he  moved  to  and  fro. 

"Where  is  the  captain?"  she  asked. 

"In  his  room,  Madama.  He  has  eaten  and  now  he  sleeps 
till  midnight." 

"And  the  officer?" 

"He  is  on  the  bridge,  Madama." 

"Who  eats  here?" 

"The  officer  and  the  engineer." 

"Is  the  Engineer  English? " 

"Maltese,  Madama." 

The  man  spoke  in  low,  respectful  tones,  his  eyes  flickering 
up  and  down  as  he  sought  to  scan  her  features.  This  was 
most  marvellous,  he  was  thinking.  The  new  chief  officer 
brings  a  woman,  a  ravishing  creature,  on  board  in  secret. 
This  explains  the  abuse  of  the  morning.  What  would  the 
captain  say?  He  must  tell  Plouff.  He  had  mentioned  to 
Plouff  the  singular  behaviour  of  the  chief  officer  when  he, 
the  steward,  had  attempted  to  enter  that  gentleman's  cabin. 


Ui  COMMAND 

Plouff  had  laughed  and  pushed  him  out  of  the  road.  It  was 
time  to  call  Plouff  to  relieve  the  chief  officer.  He  hurried  to 
the  galley  to  fetch  the  stew.  He  lifted  the  canvas  flap  which 
screened  the  lights  from  a  seaward  view  and  found  Plouff 
seated  in  a  corner  talking  to  the  cook. 

"Hi,  Jo,"  he  whispered,  "Madama  on  sheep !  Madama  on 
sheep!     Yes." 

"What's  the  matter  with  you.^"  demanded  Plouff  disdain- 
fully.    "What  are  you  makin'  that  funny  face  for?" 

"She  come  oop,"  went  on  the  steward  with  much  dramatic 
illustration.  "I  look,  see  Madama.  You  savvy.^  Very 
nice.     Very  beautiful." 

"Has  she  come  out?"  asked  Plouff  with  interest. 

"Yaas.     She  come  oop." 

"I'll  go  up  and  tell  the  mate,"  said  Plouff.  "You  savvy, 
Nicholas,  plenty  mon'  if  you  look  after  her.  Fix  her  up. 
The  mate,  you  savvy?"  and  Mr.  Plouff  rubbed  the  sides  of 
his  two  forefingers  together,  to  indicate  the  tender  relations 
existing  between  Mr.  Spokesly  and  the  lady. 

"Oh,  yaas,  I  savvy  all  right,  Jo."  The  steward  writhed 
in  his  impotence  to  express  the  completeness  of  his  compre- 
hension, and  hurried  away. 

Mr.  Spokesly  listened  in  silence  to  the  news. 

"I'll  go  down,"  he  said.  "If  you  see  a  light  of  any  sort, 
stamp  on  the  deck." 

"Well,  I  should  think  so.  I  ain't  likely  to  stand  on  my 
head,  am  I?"  said  Plouff,  peeping  at  the  compass. 

Mr.  Spokesly  went  down  without  replying  to  this  brilliant 
sally.  He  stood  for  a  moment  looking  over  the  rail  at  the 
sullen  end  of  the  sunset,  a  smudge  of  dusky  orange  smeared 
with  bands  of  black  and  bronze,  and  wondered  what  the 
night  would  bring  for  them  all.  The  little  ship  was  moving 
slowly  through  a  calm  sea  that  shone  like  polished  black 
marble  in  the  sombre  light  from  the  west.  Ahead,  the  sky 
and  sea  merged  indistinguishably  in  the  darkness.  No  light 
showed  on  the  ship.  She  moved,  a  shadow  among  shadows, 
with  no  more  than  a  faint  hissing  rumble  from  her  engines. 
Mr.  Spokesly  moved  aft,  inspired  by  a  wish  to  see  for  himself 


COMMAND  243 

if  all  the  scuttles  were  screened.  He  found  the  engineer 
smoking  near  the  engine  hatch. 

"All  dark.'^"  he  said,  pausing. 

"Everything's  all  right  here.  Mister  Mate,"  said  the  man,  a 
quiet  creature  with  an  unexpected  desire  to  give  every  satis- 
faction. Mr.  Spokesly  was  puzzled  to  account  for  the  cap- 
tain's dislike  of  Mr.  Cassar. 

"Why  don't  you  go  and  eat.'^'*  asked  Mr.  Spokesly. 

"The  steward,  he  tell  me  there's  a  lady  in  the  cabin.  Mister 
Mate,  so  I  t'ink  I'll  wait  till  she  feenish." 

"You  don't  need  to,"  was  the  steady  answer. 

"Yes,  I  wait  till  she  feenish,  all  the  same." 

"Very  well.  Mind  they  keep  the  canvas  over  the  hatch. 
It  shows  a  long  way  across  a  smooth  sea,  you  know." 

"I  watch  'em.  Mister  Mate." 

And  Mr.  Spokesly  went  forward  again.  In  spite  of  the 
gravity  of  their  position,  without  guns  or  escort,  he  felt  satis- 
fied with  himself.  He  passed  once  more  by  the  rail  before 
going  in.  In  his  present  mood,  he  was  mildly  concerned 
that  Evanthia  should  have  found  it  necessary  to  "turn  the 
key  in  his  face."  He  didn't  intend  to  do  things  that  way. 
It  would  be  pretty  cheap  taking  an  advantage  like  that. 
Was  it  likely  he  would  run  all  this  risk  for  her,  if  that  was 
all  he  thought  of  her.?  He  was  painfully  correct  and  logical 
in  his  thoughts.  Well,  she  would  learn  he  was  not  like 
that.  He  would  treat  her  decently,  and  when  they  reached 
Piraeus,  he  would  carry  out  her  wishes  to  the  letter.  He 
could  not  help  worrying  about  the  day  or  two  they  would  re- 
main in  Phyros.  She  would  have  to  keep  out  of  sight. 
.  .  .  He  opened  the  cabin  door  and  went  in.  He  had  a 
strange  sensation  of  walking  into  some  place  and  giving 
himself  up,  only  to  find  that  he  had  forgotten  what  he  had 
done.     A  strange  notion ! 

She  looked  up  and  regarded  him  with  critical  approval. 
She  had  finished  eating  and  sat  with  her  chin  in  her  hands. 
The  swinging  lamp  shed  a  flood  of  mellow  light  upon  her,  and 
her  arms,  bare  to  the  elbow,  gleamed  like  new  ivory  below 
the  shadowy  pallor  of  her  face.     And  as  he  sat  down  at  the 


244  COMMAND 

other  end  of  the  table,  facing  her,  he  had  another  strange 
notion,  or  rather  a  fresh  unfolding  of  the  same,  that  at  last 
they  met  on  equal  ground,  face  to  face,  measured  in  a  myste- 
rious and  mystical  antagonism.  She  lifted  her  chin,  a  move- 
ment of  symbolical  significance,  and  met  his  gaze  with  wide- 
open  challenging  amber  eyes. 

And  when  he  went  up  on  the  bridge  half  an  hour  later, 
she  expressed  a  charming  and  sudden  desire  to  see  the  things 
he  did  there,  and  the  mystery  of  the  night. 

"You'll  be  cold,"  he  muttered,  thinking  of  the  night  air. 
He  led  her  carefully  up  the  little  ladder,  and  she  shivered. 

"Bos',"  said  Mr.  Spokesly  in  a  low  tone.  "Have  you  got 
an  overcoat?" 

"Of  course  I  have.  What  do  you  think  I  am.'^ "  demanded 
the  rather  tired  Plouff. 

"You  wouldn't  if  you  had  had  to  jump  into  the  water  as  I 
did,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly  patiently.  "I  want  you  to  bring  it 
up  here  for  this  lady." 

"Of  course  I  will.     Why  didn't  you  say  so?" 

"You  can  sit  here,"  said  the  chief  officer.  There  was  a 
seat  at  each  end  of  the  bridge  screened  by  a  small  teak  house 
with  glass  windows,  and  he  pushed  Evanthia  gently  into  the 
starboard  one.  "And  now  put  this  on,"  he  added  when 
Plouff  appeared  holding  out  an  enormous  mass  of  heavy  blue 
cloth. 

And  into  that  dark  corner  she  vanished,  so  obliterated  by 
the  coat  that  only  by  leaning  close  to  her  could  Mr.  Spokesly 
discern  the  gleam  of  her  forehead  and  eyes.  But  when  he 
had  seen  that  she  was  comfortable,  he  took  himself  to  the 
centre  of  the  bridge  and  stood  there  looking  out  over  the 
dodger  and  thinking  of  the  question  she  had  put  to  him  in 
the  cabin.  By  and  by,  she  had  retorted  upon  his  avowal  of 
indef)endence,  he  would  go  back  to  his  sweetheart,  his  fiancee, 
in  England,  and  what  would  Evanthia  do  then?  That  was 
the  question.  He  stared  into  the  darkness  and  sought  some 
kind  of  an  answer  to  it.  It  cut  to  the  very  quick  of  his 
emotion  for  her — that  extraordinary  sentiment  which  can 
exist  in  a  man's  heart  without  impairing  in  any  way  his 


COMMAND  245 

authentic  fidelities.  He  wanted  to  make  her  see  this,  and 
he  could  not  find  words  adequate  to  express  the  subtle  perver- 
sity of  the  thought.  He  had  a  sudden  fancy  she  was  laugh- 
ing at  him  and  his  clumsy  attempts  to  justify  his  devotion. 
He  turned  and  walked  over  to  her  and  bent  down.  He  could 
see  the  bright  eyes  over  the  immense  collar  of  the  coat. 

"England  is  a  long  way  away,"  he  whispered.  "I  mean, 
very  distant.  Perhaps  I  shall  never  get  back.  And  nobody 
writes  to  me.  No  letters.  So,  while  I  am  here,  you  under- 
stand?" 

He  remained  bent  over  her,  his  head  lost  in  the  darkness 
of  the  little  recess,  waiting  for  a  reply  which  did  not  come. 
And  he  thought,  going  away  to  the  binnacle  again : 

"She  is  right.  Nobody  can  excuse  themselves  in  a  case 
like  this.     The  only  way  is  to  say  nothing  at  all." 

He  did  not  go  near  her  for  a  long  while.  Then  an  idea 
came  to  him,  so  simple  he  wondered  he  had  not  thought  of  it 
before.  He  was  not  making  the  most  of  the  situation.  He 
glanced  back  at  the  helmsman.  He  was  far  back,  behind  the 
steering  wheel,  and  the  faint  glow  of  the  binnacle  lamp  was 
screened  by  a  canvas  hood.  Mr.  Spokesly  bent  over  the 
girl  again. 

"You  do  not  believe  me?"  he  muttered.  "You  think  I 
am  not  sincere?    You  think  I  would  leave  you?" 

He  leaned  closer,  watching  her  bright  deriding  eyes,  and  she 
nodded, 

"Ah  yes,"  she  sighed.  "By  and  by  you  would  go." 

"You  think  because  other  men  do  that  .  .  .  you 
think     .     .     .     ?" 

She  nodded  emphatically. 

".     .     .    all  men  alike?"  he  finished  lamely. 

"They  are!"  she  said  quickly  and  laid  her  head  against  his 
shoulder  for  a  moment  with  a  faint  chuckle  of  laughter. 

"All  right,"  he  whispered  gravely,  "they  are,  as  you  say. 
But  when  we  get  ashore  in  Athens,  we  will  get  married.  Now 
then.     .     .     ." 

His  tone  was  low  but  triumphant.  She  could  have  no 
reply  to  that.     It  swept  away  all  doubts  in  his  own  mind :  and 


£46  COMMAND 

he  thought  her  mind  was  hke  his  own,  a  lumber  room  of  old- 
fashioned,  very  dusty  conventions  and  ideals.  If  he  married 
her  she  must  be  convinced  of  his  sincerity.  It  did  not  occur 
to  him  that  women  are  not  interested  very  much  in  the 
sincerity  of  a  man,  that  he  can  be  as  unfaithful  as  he  likes  if 
he  fulfills  her  conception  of  beauty  and  power  and  genius,  that 
a  woman  like  Evanthia  might  have  a  different  notion  of  mar- 
riage from  his  own. 

And  she  did  not  reply.  He  moved  away  from  her,  up- 
lifted by  the  mood  of  the  moment.  There  could  be  no  reply 
to  that  save  surrender,  he  thought  proudly. 

And  Evanthia  was  astonished.  She  sat  there  in  the  dark- 
ness, bound  upon  a  journey  which  would  bring  her,  she  be- 
lieved, to  the  amiable  and  faithless  creature  who  had  touched 
her  imagination  and  who  embodied  for  her  all  the  gaiety  and 
elegance  of  Europe.  And  this  other  man,  a  man  of  a  distant, 
truculent,  and  predatory  race,  a  race  engaged  in  the  destruc- 
tion of  European  civilization  as  a  sacrifice  to  their  own  little 
tribal  god  (which  was  the  way  Lietherthal  had  explained  it 
to  her)  was  proposing  to  marry  her.  It  bereft  her  of  speech 
because  she  was  busy  coordinating  in  her  swift,  shrewd  mind 
all  the  advantages  of  such  a  scheme.  There  was  an  allure- 
ment in  it,  too.  Her  imagination  was  caught  by  the  sudden 
vision  of  herself  as  the  chatelaine  of  a  villa.  Yes!  Her  eyes 
sparkled  as  she  figured  it.  He  came  towards  her  again  and, 
leaning  over,  buried  his  face  in  the  clean  fresh  fragrance  of  her 
hair.  She  remembered  that  magical  moment  by  the  White 
Tower  when  he  had  transcended  his  destiny  and  muttered 
hoarsely  that  he  would  go  to  hell  for  her.  She  put  the 
question  to  herself  with  terrible  directness — could  she  hold 
him?  Could  she  exercise  the  mysterious  power  of  her  sex 
upon  him  as  upon  men  of  her  own  race?  She  closed  her  eyes 
and  sought  blindly  for  an  accession  of  strength  in  this  crisis 
of  her  life.  She  put  her  arms  up  and  felt  his  hand  on  her 
face.  And  then,  giving  way  to  an  obscure  and  primitive 
impulse,  she  buried  her  teeth  in  his  wrist.  And  for  a  long 
while  they  remained  there,  two  undisciplined  hearts,  voyag- 
ing through  a  perilous  darkness  together. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MR.  SPOKESLY,  looking  down  from  the  bridge  at  the 
upturned  and  uncompromising  face  of  Joseph  Plouff , 
frowned. 

"What  does  he  say?"  he  repeated  uneasily. 

"He  says  keep  the  course." 

"You  gave  him  the  note?" 

"No,  he  didn't  open  the  door.  He  just  said,  to  keep  the 
course.  I  said  *You  mean,  don't  alter  it,  Captinne?'  and  he 
said,  *No.'" 

Plouff  handed  up  the  note  Mr.  Spokesly  had  given  him, 
and  the  puzzled  chief  officer  took  it  and  opened  it,  as  though 
he  had  forgotten  or  was  uncertain  of  its  contents.  But 
before  he  read  it  afresh,  he  took  a  look  round.  This  told  him 
nothing  for  he  was  entirely  lost  in  a  white  fog  that  rolled  and 
swirled  in  slow  undulating  billows  athwart  the  ship's  bows. 
For  four  hours  he  had  been  going  through  this  and  the  cap- 
tain had  not  made  his  appearance  on  the  bridge.  Each  time 
had  come  up  the  same  message,  to  keep  the  course.  And  at 
last  Mr.  Spokesly  had  written  a  little  note.  He  had  torn  a 
page  out  of  the  scrap-log  and  written  these  words : 

To  Captain  Rannie 
Sir, 

We  have  run  our  distance  over  this  course.  Please  give 
bearer  your  orders.     Weather  very  thick. 

R.  Spokesly.     Mate. 

And  he  hadn't  even  opened  the  door.  It  was  this  singular 
seclusion  which  caused  Mr.  Spokesly  so  much  anxiety.  Fog, 
and  the  captain  not  on  deck!  Plouff,  whose  presence  was  an 
undeniable  comfort  for  some  reason  or  other,  pulled  himself 

247 


248  COMMAND 

up  the  steep  little  ladder  and  stood  staring  lugubriously  into 
the  fog. 

"Funny  sort  of  old  man,  this,"  muttered  the  mate. 

"He's  always  the  same  at  sea,"  said  PloufiF,  still  staring. 

"What.f*    Leaves  it  to  the  mate. '^'^ 

"Yes.     Always." 

"But  .  .  ."  Mr.  Spokesly  looked  at  the  fog,  at  Plouff, 
at  the  binnacle,  and  then  hastily  fitted  himself  into  the  little 
wheel-house.  He  bent  over  the  chart  with  a  ruler  and  pair  of 
dividers,  spacing  first  a  pencilled  line  drawn  from  Cape 
Kassandra  to  a  point  a  few  miles  south  of  Cape  Fripeti  on  the 
Island  of  Boze  Baba,  and  then  along  the  scale  at  the  edge  of 
the  chart. 

"See  what's  on  the  log.  Bos',  will  you?"  he  called. 

This  was  serious.  Within  a  few  minutes  the  course  ought 
to  be  altered  to  due  south.  The  usual  four  knots  of  the 
Kalkis  had  been  exceeded  owing  to  the  smoothness  of  the  sea, 
which  accounted  for  their  arrival  at  this  position  before  six 
o'clock,  when  the  captain  would  once  more  take  charge. 
Another  thing  was  that  from  now  on  they  would  be  on  the 
course  of  warships  passing  south  from  the  great  base  at 
Mudros,  the  landlocked  harbour  of  Lemnos.  The  bosun 
came  up  again  and  reported  thirty  miles  from  noon.  Well, 
the  log  was  about  ten  per  cent,  fast,  so  a  note  said  in  the 
night  order  book.  It  was  five-thirty  now,  which  gave  them 
twenty-seven  miles  from  noon  or  nearly  five  knots.  That 
brought  them  due  south  of  Fripeti. 

Mr.  Spokesly  looked  at  Plouff ,  who  was  looking  at  the  fog 
with  an  expression  of  extreme  disillusion  on  his  round  face. 
And  again  at  the  chart.  There  was  nothing  more  to  be 
extracted  from  either  Plouff  or  the  chart.  The  pencilled  line 
which  indicated  their  course  ended  abruptly.  Where,  then, 
were  they  bound?  Keep  on  the  course,  the  captain  said. 
Mr.  Spokesly  laid  the  parallel  ruler  against  the  fine  and  pro- 
duced it  clear  across  the  chart.  He  stood  up  with  a  sharp 
intake  of  breath  and  regarded  the  impassive  Plouff,  who 
looked  down  at  the  chart  with  respectful  curiosity. 

"Say,  Bos',"  he  began.     "This  is  a  funny  business." 


COMMAND  ^9 

"What's  a  funny  business?'*  demanded  Plouff,  looking 
round,  as  though  expecting  to  see  something  of  an  extremely 
comical  nature  being  performed.  The  pause  gave  Mr. 
Spokesly  time  to  reflect.     He  cleared  his  throat. 

"The  Old  Man  staying  down  there.  He  ought  to  .  .  . 
but  then  he  says  keep     .     .     ." 

"'Hold  her  on  the  course,'  were  his  words,"  said  Plouff 
obstinately,  adding,  "Hasn't  she  got  a  clear  road?" 

"Yes  .  .  ."  muttered  the  mate  jerkily,  "road's 
clear  .  .  .  humph !"  he  stared  at  the  chart.  "Oh,  well! 
By  George,  I  wish  this  damn  fog  would  clear  away." 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  fog?"  said  Plouff.  "We're 
safe  in  the  fog,  ain't  we?  You  can  bet  them  unterseehoais 
'11  keep  in  under  the  islands  this  weather.  Too  much  chance 
o'  gettin'  stove  in,"  he  added  sympathetically.  The  mate 
did  not  reply  for  a  moment.  He  was  very  uneasy.  He 
studied  the  chart.  Indeed,  he  could  not  get  away  from  that 
pencilled  line  running  right  into  the  Gulf  of  Smyrna.  And 
Phyros  was  south  of  Khios.  He  was  tired  and  sleepy. 
Eight  hours  was  a  long  while  to  stay  on  the  bridge.  He 
would  be  glad  when  they  got  in.  Got  in  where  ?  He  stared 
again  at  the  chart.  And  the  Old  Man  locked  in  his  room. 
Always  did  that,  eh? 

"Go  away,  Bos',"  he  said,  suddenly.  "You  got  to  be 
about  to-night,  you  know.     We'll  be  anchoring.     .     .     ." 

He  forgot  what  he  was  saying,  staring  hard  at  the  chart. 
Plouff  slipped  down  into  the  fog  and  clattered  away  forward. 

But  Mr.  Spokesly  was  not  unhappy.  There  was  an  un- 
familiar yet  desirable  quality  about  this  life.  The  sharp 
flavour  of  it  made  one  forget  both  the  ethical  and  economic 
aspects  of  one's  existence.  At  the  back  of  his  mind  was  a 
boyish  desire  to  show  that  girl  what  he  was  made  of.     And 

when  they  got  to  Athens  he  would Athens!   The  word 

sent  him  back  to  the  chart.  Keep  on  the  course.  He  was  sail- 
ing across  a  wide  ocean  and  the  old  familiar  landmarks  were 
hull  down  behind  the  fog.  There  was  something  symbolic 
in  that  fog.  It  was  as  though  he  had  indeed  left  the  world 
of  his  youth  behind,  the  world  of  warm  English  hearts,  of 


250  COMMAND 

cantankerous  affections  and  dislikes,  of  fine  consciences  and 
delicate  social  distinctions,  and  was  passing  through  a  con- 
fusing and  impalpable  region  of  vaporous  uncertainty  to  an 
unknown  country.  He  was  not  unhappy.  The  future  might 
be  anything,  from  silken  dalliance  behind  green  jalousies 
in  some  oriental  villa  with  a  fountain  making  soft  music, 
which  is  the  food  of  love,  to  a  sudden  detonation,  red  spurts  of 
savage  flame,  and  a  grave  in  a  cold  sea.  He  went  out  and 
looked  at  the  compass.  And  at  the  fog.  Now  that  Plouff 
was  gone  down  he  felt  lonely.  He  stamped  on  the  deck  to 
call  the  steward.  The  captain  would  have  to  be  called.  If 
he  did  not  come,  he,  the  mate,  would  go  down  and  inform  him 
that  the  course  would  be  changed  without  him.  That  would 
be  the  only  way.  He  had  never  had  a  commander  like  this, 
nor  a  voyage  like  this,  for  that  matter.  He  paused  suddenly 
in  his  thoughts  and  looked  down,  pinching  his  lower  lip  be- 
tween finger  and  thumb.  He  had  an  idea.  To  achieve  any- 
thing, one  had  to  be  eternally  prepared  for  just  such  un- 
expected predicaments.  Here  he  was,  with  an  invisible 
commander  and  an  invisible  horizon.  And  down  in  a  cabin 
below  him  was  Evanthia  Solaris,  a  distinct  and  formidable 
problem.  He  was  going  to  marry  her.  He  saw  his  destiny, 
almost  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  as  a  ball  which  he  could 
take  in  his  hand  and  throw.  And  the  direction  and  distance 
depended  entirely  upon  his  own  strength,  his  own  skill,  his 
own  fortitude.  He  was  going  to  marry  her.  And  he  saw 
another  thing  for  the  first  time — that  marriage  was  of  no 
significance  in  itself  for  a  man.  What  he  is,  brain  and 
sinew,  character  and  desire,  is  all  that  counts.  He  saw  this 
because  he  had  left  the  old  life  behind  beyond  the  fog.  Back 
there,  marriage  was  a  contrivance  for  the  hamstringing  and 
debasing  of  men,  a  mere  device  for  the  legal  comfort  and 
security  of  women  who  were  too  lazy  or  incompetent  or  too 
undesirable  to  secure  it  for  themselves.  Ahead  he  had  a 
strange  premonition  that  he  was  going  to  have  a  novel  ex- 
perience. 

He  was. 

He  was  aroused  by  the  helmsman  reaching  out  and  striking 


COMMAND  251 

four  soft  blows  on  the  little  bronze  bell  hanging  by  the 
awning-spar  over  the  binnacle.  Six  o'clock.  And  the  young 
Jew,  in  a  huge  apron  and  a  high  astrakhan  cap  he  had  piclied 
up  somewhere,  came  slowly  up  the  bridge  ladder. 

"Captain,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  making  a  number  of  mo- 
tions to  signify  knocking  at  a  door  and  calling  somebody  out. 
"Savvy?" 

The  frightened  creature,  who  was  quite  unable  to  compre- 
hend the  extraordinary  phenomenon  of  the  fog  on  the  sea, 
and  who  regarded  Mr.  Spokesly,  moreover,  as  a  species  of 
demi-god,  raised  his  remarkable  face  as  though  in  suppli- 
cation, and  backed  down  again.  It  was  evident  to  him  that 
his  employer  had  consigned  him  to  some  distant  place  of 
torment  from  which  he  could  never  return.  Yet  even  in  his 
timid  heart  there  was  hope.  Already  he  had  given  his 
allegiance  to  that  beautiful  and  haughty  creature  whose 
cabin  it  was  his  trembling  joy  and  pride  to  put  in  order.  His 
ears  were  alert  at  all  times  to  catch  the  sharp  clapping  sound 
of  her  hands  when  she  needed  him,  and  then  he  flew  below. 
She  would  speak  to  him  in  his  native  tongue,  which  was 
Spanish,  and  ravish  his  soul  with  words  he  could  understand, 
instead  of  the  terrifying  gutturals  of  those  powerful  Franks 
who  walked  to  and  fro  on  the  top  of  the  tower  above  them  and 
gave  incomprehensible  commands. 

"  Fear  not,"  she  assured  him.  "  When  the  ship  reaches  the 
port,  thou  shalt  go  with  me  as  my  servant.  The  lieutenant 
shall  give  thee  money  as  wages  when  he  is  my  husband." 

"  Merciful  Madama,  what  port?  Whither  do  we  go?  Is  it 
beyond  the  clouds?" 

"Ah,"  she  retorted,  leaning  back  on  the  cushions  of  the 
settee,  and  blowing  cigarette-smoke  from  her  beautiful  lips. 
"I  would  Hke  to  know  that  myself.  Beyond  the  clouds? 
You  mean  this  fog.  Yes,  far  beyond  the  clouds.  Did  you 
not  hear  anything  at  all  in  the  Rue  Voulgaroktono?" 

"Nothing,  Madama,  except  that  once  I  heard  Sefior 
Dainopoulos  tell  Sefior  Malleotis  that  they,  someone,  had 
reached  Aidin." 

"Aiee?"  ejaculated  Evanthia,  sitting  up  and  fixing  her 


252  COMMAND 

burning  amber  eyes  on  the  frightened  and  hypnotized  crea- 
ture.    "And  didst  thou  hear  nothing  else?     Aidin!     Tchk!" 

"I  do  not  know,  Madama,'*  he  quavered.  *' Unless  there 
is  a  port  called  Bairakli." 

Evanthia  showed  her  teeth  in  a  brilliant  smile  and  patted 
the  youth's  arm. 

"My  servant  you  shall  be,"  she  chuckled.  "No,  there  is 
no  port  called  Bairakli,  but  it  is  near  to  a  city  you  and  I  will 
find  good.  Shalt  live  at  Bairakli,  Amos !  Tck — tck !  What 
a  fool  I  was.  Oh!  Caro!  Oh  mein  lieber  Mann  T'  And 
she  sang  sweetly  a  few  notes  of  a  song. 

The  young  man  stared  at  her  in  stupefaction. 

"Go,"  she  said,  pushing  him  with  a  characteristic  gesture, 
at  once  brusque  and  charming.  "You  need  have  no  fear. 
Your  fortune  is  made." 

A  few  minutes  past  six  Captain  Rannie  climbed  the  bridge 
ladder  and  examined  the  compass  without  addressing  his 
chief  officer,  bending  over  it  with  an  exaggerated  solicitude. 
Apparently  satisfied,  he  went  into  the  chart  room  and  im- 
mediately pushed  the  ruler  from  its  significant  position, 
pointing  into  the  interior  of  Asia  Minor.  There  was  an 
indefinable  nervous  bounce  about  him  which  indicated  a 
highly  exalted  state  of  mind.  He  seemed,  Mr.  Spokesly 
imagined,  to  be  assuming  truculence  to  cover  timidity.  He 
probably  knew  that  his  insistence  on  keeping  the  course  had 
aroused  conjecture,  and  the  ruler,  lying  as  it  did  on  the  chart, 
confirmed  the  idea.  Yet  he  did  not  speak.  Funking,  Mr. 
Spokesly  decided,  obstinately  remaining  close  to  the  dodger 
and  staring  straight  ahead — towards  Asia  Minor.  If  the  Old 
Man  thought  he  was  going  to  get  away  with  it  ...  he 
cleared  his  throat  and  remarked : 

"About  time  to  change  the  course  for  Phyros,  sir?" 
And  to  his  surprise  Mr.  Spokesly,  in  the  midst  of  his  highly 
complex  cogitations,  found  himself  listening  to  a  jaunty  and 
characteristic  monologue  which  touched  upon — among  other 
things — the  one  rule  which  Captain  Rannie  insisted  was  the 
sine  qua  non  of  a  good  officer,  that  he  should  accept  the 


COMMAND  253 

commander's  orders  without  comments.  Otherwise,  how 
could  discipUne  be  maintained?  As  to  the  course,  he,  Cap- 
tain Rannie,  would  attend  to  that  immediately.  And  while 
he  appreciated  it,  of  course,  there  was  no  real  need  for  Mr. 
Spokesly  to  remain  on  the  bridge  after  he  had  been  relieved. 

Mr.  Spokesly,  still  looking  ahead,  wanted  to  say  sarcasti- 
cally, "Is  that  so.f^"  but  he  was  tongue-tied,  dumfounded. 
Here  was  a  man,  apparently  of  straw,  who  was  jauntily' 
inviting  him  to  clear  out  and  mind  his  own  business.     He 
pulled  himself  together. 

"Unless  we  pick  up  a  Mudros  escort  somewhere  round 
here,"  he  muttered,  turning  away. 

Captain  Rannie  came  out  of  the  chart  room  from  which 
his  lean  and  cadaverous  head  had  been  projecting  to  deliver 
his  homily  on  obeying  orders,  and  looked  all  round  at  the 
white  walls  of  fog.  It  was  as  though  he  were  contemplating 
some  novel  but  highly  convenient  dispensation  of  Providence 
which  he  was  prepared  to  accept  as  one  of  the  minor  hard- 
ships of  life.  All  consciousness  of  Mr.  Spokesly's  presence 
seemed  to  have  vanished  from  his  mind.  He  spoke  to  the 
helmsman,  walked  to  port  and  looked  down  at  the  water, 
looked  aft  and  aloft,  and  resumed  his  stroll. 

And  Mr.  Spokesly,  craftily  placed  at  a  disadvantage, 
turned  suddenly  and  clattered  down  the  ladder. 

"Well,"  he  thought  to  himself,  pausing  on  the  deck  below 
and  still  holding  to  the  hand-rail,  "he  can't  keep  it  up  for 
ever.  And  I  can't  do  anything  in  this  fog.  He's  going  to 
pile  her  up." 

But  as  he  went  into  the  saloon  he  could  not  help  asking 
himself,  "What  for?"  What  gain  had  Captain  Rannie  or 
Mr.  Dainopoulos  in  view  when  they  ran  a  valuable  cargo  on 
the  rocky  shores  of  Lesbos  or  Anatolia?  The  word  "ran" 
stuck  in  his  mind.  "Running  a  cargo"  in  wartime,  eh? 
One  didn't  run  cargoes  on  the  rocks,  in  war-time.  He  stared 
so  fixedly  at  Amos,  who  was  laying  the  table,  that  in  spite  of 
Evanthia's  assurance  of  future  good  fortune,  the  poor  creature 
trembled  and  grew  pale.  Mr.  Spokesly  understood  neither 
Greek  nor  Spanish,  or  he  might  have  derived  some  enlighten- 


£54  COMMAND 

ment  from  a  conversation  with  the  young  Jew.  He  frowned 
and  went  on  down  to  his  cabin.  He  wanted  sympathy  in  his 
anxiety.  And  it  was  part  of  his  Victorian  and  obsolete 
mental  equipment  to  expect  sympathy  from  a  woman. 

She  was  standing  before  the  little  mirror,  setting  the 
immense  tortoise-shell  comb  into  her  hair  at  the  desired  angle, 
and  she  gave  herseK  a  final  searching  scrutiny,  as  she  turned 
away,  before  flashing  a  dazzling  smile  at  him. 

"What  is  the  matter.'*"  she  asked  in  her  precise  EngHsh, 
seeing  the  worried  expression  on  his  face.  He  sat  down  on 
the  settee,  and  she  seated  herself  close  beside  him,  smiling 
with  such  ravishing  abandon  that  he  forgot  the  reason  for  his 
concern. 

"If  I  can  only  get  you  ashore,"  he  muttered,  holding  her  to 
him  and  kissing  her  hair. 

"Where?"  she  whispered,  watching  him  with  her  bright 
amber  eyes. 

"That's  just  it,"  he  said.     "I  don't  know  where." 

She  put  her  finger  to  her  lips. 

"I  know,"  she  said. 

He  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders  and  held  her  awaj  a 
little,  staring  at  her. 

"You!"  he  breathed  incredulously.     "You?" 

She  nodded,  her  eyes  kindhng. 

"Here,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "You  must  be  straight  with 
me,  dear.  Tell  me  what  you  know.  The  captain,  he's  very 
funny  to-day." 

"  Ismir ! "  she  called  into  his  ear  in  a  ringing  tone.  "  Beauti- 
ful, beautiful  Ismir!" 

"What's  that  you're  talking  about?"  he  demanded  doubt- 
fully.    "I  don't  understand." 

"No?     Soon  you  will  understand,  when  we  reach  Ismir." 

" I've  never  heard  of  it,"  he  declared.  "But  I  can  tell  you, 
if  the  Old  Man  don't  alter  the  course,  we're  going  straight 
into  Smyrna." 

"Ah,  yes,"  she  sighed.  "I  remember  now.  You  call  it 
that.  We  call  it  Ismir,  Turkish  place.  When  I  was  little, 
little  girl,  we  arrive  there,  my  fazzer  and  my  muzzer.     Oh, 


COMMAND  255 

beautiful !  The  grand  hotels,  the  bains ,  the  plage ^  the  quais, 
the  mountains,  the  cafes-chantant.  Aiee !  And  Bairakli  t 
I  will  show  you.  I  was  little,  thirteen  years  old."  She 
laughed,  a  soft  throaty  chuckle,  on  his  shoulder,  at  some 
reminiscence.     "Ismir!    Oh  mein  lieber  Mann  I  " 

She  intoxicated  him  with  her  bewildering  moods,  with  her 
trick  of  recalling  to  his  memory  his  early  dreams  of  beautiful 
women,  those  bright  shadows  of  unseen  enchantresses  which 
had  tortured  and  stimulated  his  boyish  thoughts.  But  he 
could  not  refrain  from  returning  to  the  serious  problem  of 
how  she  knew  so  accurately  the  intentions  of  his  commander. 

"The  captain  tell  you?"  he  asked  expectantly.  Her  brow 
grew  dark  and  a  blankness  like  a  film  came  over  her  eyes. 

"I  do  not  like  your  capitainey'*  she  muttered.  "He  is  like 
an  old  woman.  Look  at  his  face.  And  the  silver  ring  on  his 
wrist.  Like  an  old  vulture,  his  head  between  his  shoulders. 
Look  at  him.  He  never  lifts  his  eyes.  Do  not  speak  of  him. 
But  hear  me  now.  When  we  reach  Ismir,  we  will  have  a 
house,  you  and  me,  eh?" 

He  stared  at  her,  entranced,  yet  preoccupied  with  the 
overwhelming  diflSculties  of  his  situation. 

"Oh,  mon  cher,  you  do  not  know  how  beautiful  it  is.  The 
most  beautiful  city  in  the  world." 

"But  how  did  you  know?  Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  Did 
Mrs.  Dainopoulos  tell  you?" 

"  Ssh !  Madame  Dainopoulos  is  an  angel.  She  like  you  an* 
me  very  much.  But  Monsieur  Dainopoulos,  he  say  to  me, 
if  I  want  to  see  my  friends  in  Pera,  by  and  by  there  is  a  ship. 
You  understand?  An'  then,  here  on  the  ship,  I  hear  some- 
sing.     Oh,  tell  me,  mon  cher,  what  time  we  arrive  at  Ismir?" 

He  was  hardly  listening  to  her,  so  busy  were  his  thoughts 
with  the  vista  opening  out  before  him.  He  was  vaguely  con- 
scious that  he  was  passing  through  a  crisis,  that  Fate  had 
suddenly  laid  all  her  cards  on  the  table  and  was  watching 
him,  with  bright  amber  eyes,  waiting  for  him  to  make  out 
what  those  cards  portended.  Here,  she  seemed  to  say,  is 
everything  you  have  ever  dreamed  of,  adventure,  romance, 
and  the  long-imagined  pleasures  of  love. 


«56  COMMAND 

"To-night?"  she  persisted,  lying  back  in  his  arms.  And 
watching  him,  sensing  his  uncertainty,  her  gaze  hardened, 
she  sat  up  away  from  him,  waiting  for  him  to  speak,  as 
though  she  were  fate  indeed.  Always  she  gave  him  that 
impression  of  hair-trigger  readiness  to  fight,  to  rip  and  tear 
and  give  no  quarter.  As  he  looked  at  her  now,  turning  over 
his  dire  predicament  the  while,  he  noticed  the  truculent 
solidity  of  her  jaw,  the  indomitable  courage  and  steadiness  of 
her  gaze. 

"Wait,"  he  muttered,  putting  up  his  hand  and  then  hold- 
ing it  to  his  brow.  "I  must  think.  I  don't  know  when  we 
arrive.     To-morrow,  perhaps." 

"Why  do  you  look  so  sad ?"  she  demanded.  '*Mon  Dieul 
To-morrow  at  Ismir.     What  happiness!" 

"For  you,"  he  added  in  a  low  voice. 

"And  for  you,"  she  twittered  in  his  ear  and  patting  his 
hand.  "I  see  the  plan  of  Monsieur  Dainopoulos  now.  We 
shall  have  good  fortune." 

There  was  a  faint  tap  at  the  door. 

"Supper,  Madama,"  said  the  young  Jew,  making  a  low 
bow,  and  they  went  up. 

Mr.  Spokesly,  sitting  on  the  engineer's  settee  an  hour  later 
and  discussing  the  matter  cautiously  with  that  person,  was 
not  so  sure  of  the  good  fortune. 

"What  can  we  do?"  he  asked,  and  the  engineer,  who  was 
of  a  peaceful  disposition  and  perfectly  satisfied  so  long  as  he 
got  his  pay,  said : 

"You  can't  do  nothing  in  this  fog.      He's  the  captain." 

"We  may  hit  something,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  who  was  talk- 
ing more  for  comfort  than  for  enlightenment. 

"Why,  yes,  we  may  do  that.  Do  it  anywhere,  come  to 
that.     Where  do  you  think  we  are  now.  Mister  Mate?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I  tell  you.  He  says  to  me,  *I'll  attend  to 
the  course,'  and  he  may  have  put  her  round.  But  I've  got  a 
notion  he's  carrying  out  his  orders.  I  see  now  why  I  got  six 
months'  pay.     Did  you?" 

"No,  I  got  a  note  on  the  captain,  same  as  usual,"  said  Mr. 
Cassar. 


COMMAND  257 

"What  do  you  think  they  will  do  with  us?"  pursued  Mr. 
Spokesly. 

"I  don*t  know,  Mister  Mate.  There *s  always  plenty  o* 
work  everywhere,"  was  the  equable  reply. 

"Is  that  all  you  think  of?" 

"I  got  a  big  family  in  Cospicua,"  said  the  engineer,  stand- 
ing up.  "  I  can't  afford  to  be  out  of  a  job.  I  think  1*11  go  and 
eat.  Mister  Mate.  Perhaps  the  fog  will  lift  a  bit  and  we  can 
see  what  the  course  is." 

They  went  out  and  climbed  the  ladder  to  the  bridge-deck, 
and  stood  staring  into  the  damp,  palpable  darkness.  The 
absence  of  all  artificial  light,  the  silence,  the  tangible  vapour 
concealing  the  surface  of  the  sea,  and  possibly,  too,  the  over- 
hanging uncertainty  of  their  destination,  combined  to  fill 
them  with  a  vague  dull  sense  of  impending  peril.  They  were 
on  the  starboard  side,  abaft  the  lifeboat.  They  could  not  see 
the  bridge  clearly,  and  the  forecastle  was  swallowed  up  in  the 
blank  opacity  of  the  mist.  It  was  a  situation  in  which  both 
care  and  recklessness  were  of  equal  futility.  The  imagination 
balked  and  turned  back  on  itself  before  the  contemplation  of 
such  limitless  possibilities.  And  it  was  while  they  were 
standing  there  in  taciturn  apprehension  that  they  suddenly 
sprang  into  an  extraordinary  animation  of  mind  and  body  at 
the  sound  and  vibration  of  a  loud  crash  forward.  The  Kalkis 
heeled  over  to  port  from  the  pressure  of  some  invisible  weight 
and  Mr.  Spokesly  started  to  run  towards  the  bridge. 

"They're  shellin'  her!"  he  bawled.  "Stand  by!  Look 
out!     What's  that?" 

He  stood  still  for  a  moment,  his  hands  raised  to  balance 
himself  against  the  returning  roll  of  the  ship  as  she  recovered. 
And  in  that  moment,  out  of  the  fog,  above  him  and  over  the 
rail,  came  an  immense  gray  vertical  wall  of  sharp  steel  rush- 
ing up  to  him  and  past  into  oblivion  with  a  grinding  splinter- 
ing roar.  There  were  cries,  the  dim  glow  of  an  opened  door 
high  up,  the  sough  of  pouring  waters  in  the  darkness,  a 
shadowy  phantom  and  a  swirl  of  propellers,  and  she  was  gone. 

And  there  was  an  absolute  silence  on  the  Kalkis  more 
dreadful  to  Mr.  Spokesly  than  the  panic  of  the  mob  of  Asiatics 


^8  COMMAND 

on  the  Tanganyika.  He  tried  to  think.  Mr.  Cassar  had 
disappeared.  They  had  been  in  collision  with  a  man-of-war, 
he  felt  certain  of  that.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  high 
cleaving  flare  of  those  gray  bows  as  they  fled  past.  And  she 
must  have  struck  the  Kalkis  forward  as  well  as  amidships. 
A  glancing  blow.  Yet  there  was  silence.  He  strode  forward 
and  climbed  the  ladder  to  the  bridge. 

"Are  you  there,  sir?"  he  called. 

There  was  no  answer.  He  went  up  to  the  man  at  the 
wheel,  who  was  turning  the  spokes  of  the  wheel  rapidly. 

"Where  is  the  Captain.'^"  he  demanded  harshly. 

"He's  over  there,"  said  the  man  confidentially,  nodding 
towards  the  other  side  of  the  bridge.  "What  was  that,  sir? 
Explosions?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly  angrily.  "Ask  the 
captain,"  and  he  went  down  again  and  descended  the  ladder 
to  the  fore-deck. 

He  fell  over  something  here  in  the  dark,  something  rough 
and  with  jagged  edges.  He  felt  it  with  his  hands  and 
discovered  that  it  was  one  of  the  heavy  cast-iron  bollards 
which  were  mounted  on  either  side  of  the  forecastle  head. 
Mr.  Spokesly  began  to  realize  that  he  was  confronting  a 
problem  which  he  would  have  to  handle  alone.  He  stepped 
over  the  mass  of  metal,  which  had  been  flung  fifty  feet,  and 
immediately  tripped  upon  a  swaying,  jagged  surface  that  tore 
his  clothes  and  cut  his  hands.  He  said  to  himself,  "The  deck 
is  torn  up.  I  must  have  a  light."  There  was  no  sound  from 
forward  and  he  wondered  miserably  if  any  of  them  had  been 
hurt.  He  climbed  to  the  bridge  again  to  get  a  hurricane  lamp 
that  he  knew  was  in  the  chart  room.  While  he  was  striking 
a  match  to  light  it  he  was  once  more  aware  of  the  fact  that  the 
engines  were  still  going.  So  he  hadn't  stopped  or  anything. 
The  captain's  form  was  dimly  discernible  against  the  canvas 
dodger,  extraordinarily  huge  and  rotund.  Mr.  Spokesly's 
anger  broke  out  in  a  harsh  yell. 

"Hi,  Captain!  Do  you  know  your  forecastle's  carried 
away?    Or  perhaps  you  don't  care." 

"I  won't  be  spoken  to  in  that  manner,"  came  the  lisping, 


COMMAND  259 

toothless  voice  from  the  darkness.  "Go  forward  and  report 
on  the  damage.  I  should  think  it  wouldn't  be  necessary  to 
tell  an  experienced  officer  his  duty.     .     .     .'* 

Mr.  Spokesly,  swinging  the  hurricane  lamp  in  his  hand,  laid 
his  other  hand  upon  Captain  Rannie's  shoulder. 

"Look  you  here.  Captain.  You  won't  be  spoken  to  in  that 
manner?  You'll  be  spoken  to  as  I  want  from  now  on.  Do 
you  get  that?  From  now  on.  I'm  going  forward  to  report 
damage.  And  when  I  find  out  if  the  ship's  sinking,  I'll  not 
trouble  to  tell  you,  you  double-crossing  old  blatherskite  you ! " 
And  he  gave  the  captain  a  thrust  that  sent  him  flying  into 
the  pent-house  at  the  end,  where  he  remained  invisible  but 
audible,  referring  with  vivacity  to  the  fact  that  he  had  been 
"attacked." 

"I'll  attack  you  again  when  I  come  back,"  muttered  his 
chief  officer  as  he  went  down  the  ladder. 

And  the  lamp  showed  him,  in  spite  of  the  fog,  what  had 
happened.  The  fore-deck  was  a  mass  of  ripped  and  twisted 
plates,  splintered  doors,  and  fragments  of  the  interiors  of 
cabins  looked  strangely  small  and  tawdry  out  on  the  harsh 
deck.  A  settee-cushion,  all  burst  and  impaled  upon  a  piece  of 
angle  iron,  impeded  him.  "Won't  be  spoken  to  that  fashion ! " 
he  muttered,  holding  up  the  lamp  and  peering  into  the  murk. 
"Good  Lord!  The  forecastle's  carried  away."  He  stum- 
bled nearer.  There  was  no  ladder  on  this  side  any  more. 
The  high  sharp  prow  had  struck  a  glancing  blow  just  abaft 
the  anchor  and  sliced  away  the  whole  starboard  side  of  the 
forecastle.  Standing  where  the  door  of  the  bosun's  room 
had  been,  Mr.  Spokesly  lowered  his  lamp  and  saw  the  black 
water  rushing  past  between  the  torn  deck-beams.  And  Mr. 
Spokesly  had  it  borne  in  upon  him  that  not  only  was  Plouff 
vanished,  but  his  cabin  was  gone.  There  was  scarcely  any- 
thing of  it  left  save  some  splintered  parts  of  the  settee  and  the 
inner  bulkhead,  on  which  a  gaudy  calendar  from  a  seaman's 
outfitter  fluttered  in  the  night  breeze  against  the  blue-white 
paint. 

Mr.  Spokesly's  heart  was  daunted  by  the  desolation  of  that 
brutally  revealed  interior.     It  daunted  him  because  he  could 


260  COMMAND 

imagine,  with  painful  particularity,  the  scene  in  that  little 
cabin  a  few  moments  before.  He  had  looked  in  at  the  door 
a  day  or  two  since,  and  seen  Plouff,  a  large  calabash  pipe  like 
a  cornucopia  in  his  mouth,  propped  up  in  his  bed-place,  read- 
ing a  very  large  book  with  marbled  covers  which  turned  out 
to  be  the  bound  volume  of  a  thirty -year-old  magazine  picked 
up  for  a  few  pence  in  some  port.  He  could  see  him  thus 
engaged  a  few  moments  ago.  Mr.  Spokesly  gave  a  sort  of 
half -sob,  half -giggle.  "My  God,  he  isn't  here  at  all!  He's 
been  carried  away,  cabin  and  bunk  and  everything.  Smashed 
and  drowned.     Well!" 

He  felt  he  couldn't  stop  there  any  more.  It  was  worse  than 
finding  Plouff's  mangled  body  in  the  ruins.  To  have  been 
wiped  out  hke  that  without  a  chance  to  explain  a  single  word 
to  any  one  was  tragic  for  Plouff.     Mr.  Spokesly  gave  a  shout. 

"Anybody  down  there?"  There  was  no  answer.  He 
found  himself  wondering  what  the  captain's  comment  would 
be  upon  Plouff's  sudden  departure  for  parts  unknown.  He 
tried  to  convince  himself  that  there  was  no  reason  for  suppos- 
ing him  to  be  dead.  He  saw  him  sitting  up  in  his  bunk  in  the 
sea,  still  clasping  the  large  book  and  smoking  the  trumpet- 
shaped  pipe,  and  indulging  in  a  querulous  explanation  of  his 
unusual  behaviour.  Which  would  not  be  his  fault  for  once, 
Mr.  Spokesly  reflected.  No  doubt,  however.  Captain  Rannie 
would  log  him  for  deserting  the  ship.  Mr.  Spokesly  went  aft 
and  looked  at  the  boat  near  which  he  had  been  standing  when 
the  collision  happened.  It  was  hanging  by  the  after  davit, 
a  mere  bunch  of  smashed  sticks.  Trailing  in  the  water  and 
making  a  soft  swishing  sound  were  the  bow  plates  and  bul- 
warks which  had  been  peeled  from  the  forepart  of  the  Kalkis 
by  the  sharp  prow  of  the  stranger.  And  yet  she  seemed  to 
have  suffered  nothing  below  the  water-line.  Mr.  Spokesly, 
who  knew  Plouff  kept  the  sounding  rod  in  his  cabin,  wondered 
how  he  was  going  to  sound  the  wells.  He  thought  of  the 
engineer,  stepped  over  to  the  port  side  to  reach  the  after 
ladder,  and  pulled  himself  up  short  to  avoid  falling  over  a 
huddled  group  gathered  alongside  the  engine-room  hatch. 

"What's  the  matter? "  he  stammered,  astonished.     He  saw 


COMMAND  261 

the  steward,  a  coat  hastily  put  on  over  his  apron,  Amos, 
whose  gHttering  and  protuberant  eyes  were  less  certain  than 
ever  of  his  future  fortune,  and  Evanthia.  She  was  not  afraid. 
She  was  angry.  She  darted  at  Mr.  Spokesly  and  broke  into  a 
torrent  of  invective  against  the  two  wretched  beings  who 
wanted  to  get  into  the  boat  and  couldn't  untie  the  ropes. 

"Pigs,  dogs,  carrion!"  she  shrilled  at  them  in  Greek,  and 
then  to  Mr.  Spokesly  she  said, 

"  The  ship.     Is  it  finished  ?  " 

"No.     Ship's  all  right.     Why  don't  you  go  down?" 

*'Mon  Dieu  !  Why.?  He  asks  why!  Did  you  hear  the 
noise.?  The  bed  is  broken.  The  window,  the  lamp,  Brr-pp  r 
She  clapped  her  hands  together.  "Why.?  Go  and  see,"  and 
she  turned  away  from  him  to  rage  once  more  at  the  two 
terrified  creatures  who  had  been  unable  to  carry  out  her 
imperious  orders.  These  had  been  to  set  her  afloat  in  the  life- 
boat instantly;  and  willingly  would  they  have  done  it,  and 
gone  in  with  her  themselves;  but  alas,  they  had  been  unable 
to  let  the  villainous  boat  drop  into  the  water. 

Mr.  Spokesly  was  genuinely  alarmed  at  this  news.  He 
left  them  precipitately  and  ran  down  the  cabin  stairs  to  find 
out  if  the  ship  was  making  water. 

There  was  no  need.  The  Kalkis,  on  rebounding  from  the 
terrific  impact  on  her  forecastle,  had  heeled  over  to  starboard, 
the  side  of  the  ship  had  been  buckled  and  crushed  along  the 
line  of  the  deck,  and  the  concussion  had  knocked  the  lamp  out 
of  its  gimbals  and  it  was  rolling  on  the  floor.  He  picked  it  up 
and  relit  it.  He  hurried  out  again  to  find  the  engineer. 
His  training  was  urging  him  to  get  the  wells  sounded.  More- 
over, the  filling  of  the  forepeak  through  the  smashed  chain- 
locker  had  put  the  ship  down  by  the  head  a  little.  She  might 
be  all  right,  but  on  the  other  hand.     .     .     . 

He  found  the  engineer  calmly  hauling  the  line  out  of  the 
forward  sounding  pipes. 

"Is  she  making  anything.  Chief?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"Just  show  a  light  please.  Mister  Mate.  I  got  a  flashlight 
here  but  it*s  gone  out  on  me.  Why,  four  inches.  Nothing 
much  here.     We'll  try  the  other  side,  eh?" 


262  COMMAND 

They  scrambled  over  the  hatch  and  hastily  wiped  the  rod 
dry  before  lowering  it  into  the  pipe. 

"Hm!"  The  engineer  grunted  as  he  brought  the  rod  into 
view  again.  "  Three  feet !  I  reckon  she's  makin'  some 
watter  here  through  that  bulkhead.  Mister  Mate.  What  say 
if  I  try  the  pumps  on  her,  eh?** 

"You  do  that,  will  you.'^  I  was  afraid  o*  that.  Chief.  You 
know  the  bosun*s  gone?*' 

"Is  that  so?  Gee!  That's  a  big  smash!  The  bosun? 
Tk— tk!     I'll  get  the  pump  on  her.'* 

"Now!**  said  Mr.  Spokesly  to  himself,  "I'm  going  to  see 
the  Old  Man.**     And  he  sprang  up  the  ladders  once  more. 

Captain  Rannie  was  not  to  be  seen,  however.  Mr.  Spoke- 
sly went  upon  the  bridge  charged  with  belligerence.  But 
Captain  Rannie  was  an  old  hand.  He  had  had  an  extraor- 
dinarily varied  experience  of  exasperated  subordinates  and 
Mr.  Spokesly*s  conscientious  tantrums  worried  him  not  at  all. 
Especially  did  he  fail  to  appreciate  the  significance  of  his 
chief  officer's  anxiety  at  this  moment  since  from  his  own 
point  of  view  this  smash  in  the  fog,  supposing  they  did  not 
meet  any  inquisitive  craft  for  an  hour  or  two,  and  this  was 
not  at  all  likely — this  smash  was  a  piece  of  singidar  good 
fortune.  The  cruiser  would  report  ramming  a  small  vessel 
in  the  fog,  and  the  people  in  Saloniki,  knowing  the  position  of 
the  Kalkis,  would  conclude  she  was  lost  with  all  hands,  when 
she  failed  to  appear  at  Phyros.  It  was  so  perfectly  in  accord- 
ance with  his  desires  that  he  decided  to  run  down  and  get  one 
of  his  own  special  cigarettes.  Now  that  he  was  actually  in 
the  middle  of  carrying  out  the  plans  of  the  owner  of  the 
Kalkisy  Captain  Rannie  suffered  from  none  of  the  timidity 
and  truculent  nervousness  which  had  assailed  him  the  day 
before.  He  had  more  courage  than  Mr.  Spokesly  would  ever 
admit  because  that  gentleman  was  not  aware  that  his  cap- 
tain was  a  bad  navigator.  To  the  bad  navigator  every 
voyage  is  a  miracle. 

So  he  came  up  jauntily,  behind  Mr.  Spokesly,  smoking  a 
special  cigarette,  and  ignoring  his  chief  officer  completely 
until  the  latter  chose  to  speak.     This  was  another  trick  he 


COMMAND  263 

had  learned  in  the  course  of  his  career  of  obHque  enthusiasms 
and  carefully  cultivated  antagonisms.  He  had  once  been 
savagely  "attacked,"  as  he  called  it,  by  a  sailor  simply  be- 
cause he  waited  for  the  man  to  speak  before  saying  a  word! 
He  had  found  that  men  might  growl  at  being  treated  "like 
dogs"  but  to  rowel  the  human  soul  it  was  far  better  to  act  as 
though  they  did  not  exist  at  all.  There  was  a  blind  primeval 
ferocity  to  be  engendcFcd  by  adumbrating,  even  for  a  few 
moments,  their  non-existence.  And  now,  with  everything  in 
his  favour,  for  he  had  heard  the  engineer's  remarks  on  the 
condition  of  the  bilges  forward,  he  was  resolved  to  "maintain 
his  authority,"  as  he  phrased  it,  by  "a  perfectly  justifiable 
silence." 

But  it  was  no  use  trying  to  convince  Mr.  Spokesly  that  he 
did  not  exist.  That  gentleman,  in  the  course  of  the  last  few 
minutes,  since  the  collision  in  fact,  had  experienced  a  great 
accession  of  vitality.  He  felt  as  though  not  only  his  own 
existence  but  the  integrity  of  the  ship  as  a  living  whole,  her 
frame,  her  life,  her  freight,  and  the  souls  clinging  to  her  in 
the  blind  white  void  of  the  fog,  was  concentrated  in  himself. 
He  looked  over  the  side  and  tried  to  see  if  the  engineer  had 
succeeded  in  getting  the  pump  on  that  bilge.  She  was  down 
by  the  head — no  doubt  of  that.  And  yet  there  couldn't  be 
any  real  fracture  of  that  bulkhead,  or  the  fore-hold  would 
have  filled  by  now.  Lucky  all  the  caps  were  well  lashed  on 
the  ventilators.  He  looked  over  the  side  again.  The  fog 
seemed  clearing  a  little.  And  the  ship  was  moving  faster. 
The  beat  of  the  engines  was  certainly  more  rapid.  He  stared 
at  the  ostentatiously  turned  back  of  his  commander  with  a 
sort  of  exasperated  admiration.  He  was  evidently  a  much 
more  accomplished  scoundrel  than  Mr.  Spokesly  had  im- 
agined. Here  he  had  extra  speed  up  his  sleeve.  Why,  it 
might  be  anything  up  to  thirteen  knots.  Not  that  the  Kalkis 
had  boilers  for  that  speed.     Wow!    He  was  a  card! 

"I  suppose  you  know  the  bosun  was  carried  overboard 
when  that  ship  hit  us,"  Mr.  Spokesly  remarked  in  a  conver- 
sational tone  as  the  captain  approached  in  his  stroll, 

**And  I've  no  doubt,"  said  Captain  Rannie  with  extreme 


264  COMMAND 

bitterness  to  the  surrounding  air,  "that  you  blame  me  for  not 
stopping  and  picking  him  up." 

"You  might  have  stopped,  certainly,"  said  his  chief 
officer;  "but  the  point  is,  if  you'd  been  on  your  right  course 
you  wouldn't  have  hit  anything." 

"Oh,  indeed!    Oh,  indeed!"  said  the  captain. 

"Yes,  oh,  indeed.  You  won't  maintain  you  were  on  the 
right  course,  I  suppose." 

"I  maintain  nothing,"  snapped  the  captain.  "I'll  merely 
trouble  you  to  ask  the  man  at  the  wheel  what  course  he  was 
making  when  we  were  run  into  by  one  of  those  infernal,  care- 
less naval  officers  who  think  they  know  everything,  like  you. 
And  after  that  I'll  merely  invite  you  to  mind  your  own  busi- 
ness." 

"Mind  my  own  business ! "  repeated  Mr.  Spokesly  in  a  daze. 

"And  I'll  mind  mine,"  added  the  captain  after  a  dramatic 
pause,  and  turning  on  his  heel. 

"You're  like  some  bally  old  woman,"  began  Mr.  Spokesly, 
"with  your  nag,  nag,  nag.  I  don't  wonder  that  Maltee  mate 
used  to  go  for  you." 

"Ask  the  man  at  the  wheel  what  course  he  was  steering," 
repeated  the  captain  distinctly,  coming  back  out  of  the 
gloom  and  wheeling  away  again. 

"I'll  be  going  for  you  myself  before  this  trip  is  over,"  added 
the  mate. 

"And  then  kindly  leave  the  bridge,"  concluded  the  captain, 
reappearing  once  more,  as  though  emerging  suddenly  from 
the  wings  of  a  theatre  and  declaiming  a  speech  in  a  play. 
Having  declaimed  it,  however,  he  retreated  with  singular 
precipitancy. 

"I  must  say,  I've  been  with  a  few  commanders  in  my 
time,"  Mr.  Spokesly  began  in  a  general  way.  He  heard  his 
captain's  voice  out  of  the  dark  opining  that  he  had  no  doubt 
every  one  of  those  commanders  was  glad  enough  to  get  rid  of 
him.     He  could  easily  believe  that. 

"Perhaps  they  were,"  agreed  Mr.  Spokesly.  "Perhaps 
they  were.  The  point  is,  even  supposing  that  was  the  case, 
they  never  made  me  want  to  throw  them  over  the  side.*' 


COMMAND  ^65 

The  voice  came  out  of  the  darkness  again,  commenting 
upon  Mr.  Spokesly's  extreme  forbearance. 

*' Don't  drive  me  too  far,"  he  warned. 

The  voice  said  all  Mr.  Spokesly  had  to  do  was  remove  him- 
self and  come  on  the  bridge  when  he  was  sent  for.  No  driv- 
ing was  intended. 

"Ah,  you  talk  very  well,  captain.  I'm  only  wondering 
whether  you'll  talk  half  so  well  at  the  Inquiry." 

The  voice  asked,  what  inquiry.'^  with  a  titter. 

*' There's  always  an  inquiry,  somewhere,  sometime,"  said 
Mr.  Spokesly,  dully,  wondering  what  he  himself  would  have 
to  say,  for  that  matter.  He  heard  the  voice  enunciate  with  a 
certain  hsping  exactitude,  "Not  yet." 

"Oh,  no,  not  yet.  When  the  war's  won,  let's  say,"  he  re- 
plied. This  seemed  such  a  convenient  substitute  for  "never," 
that  he  was  not  surprised  to  get  no  answer  save  a  sound  like 
"Tchah!" 

"The  fog's  lifting,"  he  remarked  absently.  It  was.  He 
could  already  see  a  number  of  stars  above  his  head  through 
the  thinning  vapour.  "I'll  leave  you,"  he  added,  "must  get 
some  sleep.  However,"  he  went  on,  "we'll  have  another 
look  at  the  bilges.  I  got  a  certificate  to  lose  as  well  as  you — 
if  you've  got  one." 

The  captain  remained  in  obscurity,  and  made  no  reply. 

"I  mean,  if  you  haven't  had  it  endorsed,  or  suspended,  or 
any  little  thing  like  that." 

There  was  no  answer,  and  tiring  of  the  sport,  Mr.  Spokesly 
picked  up  the  hurricane  lamp  and  went  down  again  to  sound 
the  starboard  bilge.  He  was  getting  very  tired  physically, 
now  the  reaction  from  the  excitement  of  the  collision  had  set 
in.  He  found  the  sounding-rod,  neatly  chalked,  ready  to 
lower.  Very  decent  party,  that  engineer,  he  reflected. 
Rather  disconcerting  though  in  his  almost  perfect  neutrality. 
The  wife  and  the  big  family  out  at  Cospicua,  which  is  near 
Valletta,  seemed  to  be  a  powerful  resolvent  of  sentimental 
ideas.  For  such  a  man  there  was  nothing  of  any  permanence 
in  the  world  to  compare  with  a  permanent  billet.  His  loyalty 
was  to  his  job  rather  than  to  abstract  principles  of  nationality. 


266  COMMAND 

Well!  The  rod  showed  two  feet  eight  inches.  Mr.  Spoke- 
sly  breathed  more  easily.  He  had  got  his  pumps  going, 
then.     He  decided  to  go  aft.     Yes,  the  fog  was  clearing. 

In  the  stress  of  the  crisis  through  which  he  was  passing,  the 
mysterious  and  exacerbating  strife  going  on  between  himself 
and  the  captain,  Mr.  Spokesly  seemed  to  himself  to  be  sepa- 
rated from  Evanthia  as  by  a  transparent  yet  impassable 
barrier.  The  insignificance  of  such  a  creature  in  the  face  of  a 
material  disaster  as  had  been  impending  appalled  him.  He 
saw  with  abrupt  clarity  how,  if  the  ship  had  been  mortally 
hit,  and  if  there  had  been  any  manner  of  struggle  to  save  their 
lives,  she  would  not  have  sustained  the  part  of  fainting 
heroine  rescued  by  lion-hearted  men,  or  that  of  heroic  com- 
rade taking  her  place  in  the  peril  beside  them.  Nothing  of 
the  sort.  She  would  have  got  into  the  boat  and  commanded 
the  crew  to  row  away  with  her  at  once.  She  did  not  know 
that  Plouff  was  gone,  and  if  he  went  down  and  told  her,  she 
would  not  care  a  flip  of  her  fingers.  That,  he  was  surprised 
to  realize,  was  part  of  her  charm.  She  was  so  entirely  pagan 
in  her  attitude  towards  men.  She  was  one  of  those  women 
who  were  born  to  be  possessed  by  men,  but  the  men  who 
p)OSsess  them  can  possess  nothing  else.  They  are  the  de- 
stroyers, not  of  morals,  but  of  ideals.  They  render  the 
imagination  futile  because  they  possess  the  powerful  arts  of 
the  enchantresses,  the  daughters  of  Helios.  They  demand 
the  chastity  of  an  anchorite  and  the  devotion  of  a  knight  of 
the  Grail.  While  the  virtuous  and  generous  bend  under  the 
weight  of  their  self-appointed  travails,  these  pass  by  in  swift 
palanquins  of  silk  and  fine  gold,  and  are  adored  by  the 
valiant  and  the  wise. 

And  he  was  going  to  marry  her. 

He  slept  heavily  on  the  engineer's  settee.  He  had  told 
that  obliging  person  to  give  him  a  call  at  midnight — he 
wanted  to  see  what  the  Old  Man  was  up  to.  The  Old  Man, 
however,  later  gave  Mr.  Cassar  explicit  orders  to  let  the  mate 
sleep — ^he  would  remain  on  duty  himself.  The  chief  felt 
it  incumbent  upon  him  to  oblige  the  captain,  and  Mr. 
Spokesly  slept  on,  much  disturbed  none  the  less  by  grotesque 


COMMAND  267 

and  laboured  forebodings  of  his  subconscious  being,  so  that 
he  moved  restlessly  at  times,  as  though  some  occult  power 
within  was  striving  to  rouse  him.  Indeed,  it  was  the  spirit 
of  duty  struggling  with  wearied  tissues.  It  was  past  three 
when  the  former  was  so  far  successful  as  to  wrench  his  eyes 
open.  He  started  up,  stretched,  looked  at  the  engineer's 
clock,  and  muttered  that  he  must  have  fallen  asleep  again. 
He  put  on  his  coat  and  cap,  and  taking  a  hurried  glance  at 
the  engineer,  who  was  sprawling  on  his  back  in  his  bunk  with 
his  mouth  open  and  his  fingers  clutching  the  matted  growth 
of  black  hair  on  his  chest,  he  hurried  out  on  deck. 

The  fog  was  gone,  and  a  high,  level  canopy  of  thin  clouds 
gave  the  night  the  character  of  an  enormous  and  perfectly 
dark  chamber.  The  Kalkis  was  moving  so  slowly,  Mr. 
Sp>okesly  could  with  dijQSculty  keep  tally  of  the  beat  of  the 
engines.  Yet  she  was  moving.  He  could  hear  the  sough  of 
water,  and  there  was  a  faint  phosphorescence  along  the  ship's 
side.  And  a  change  in  the  air,  an  indefinable  modification  of 
temperature  and  possibly  smell,  led  him  to  examine  the  near 
horizon  for  the  deeper  blackness  of  a  high  shore.  He  listened 
intently,  trying  to  detect  the  sound  of  waves  on  the  rocks. 
He  tried  to  figure  out  what  the  position  would  be  now,  if  they 
had  made  the  course  he  suspected.  They  ought  to  be  under 
the  southern  shores  of  Lesbos  by  now.  But  if  that  were  the 
case  the  cool  breeze  coming  off  shore  would  be  on  the  port 
side.  He  listened,  sniffed,  and  resigned  himself  passively 
for  a  moment  to  the  impact  of  influences  so  subtle  that  to  one 
unaccustomed  to  the  sea  they  might  be  suspected  of  super- 
natural sources.  He  climbed  to  the  bridge-deck  and  went 
over  to  where  the  smashed  boat  hung  like  a  skeleton  from  the 
crumpled  davit.  And  he  was  aware  at  once  of  the  correct- 
ness of  his  suspicions.  But  it  would  not  be  Lesbos.  It  was 
the  high  land  which  juts  northward  and  forms  the  western 
promontory  of  the  long  curving  Gulf  of  Smyrna.  He  could 
see  it  as  an  intenser  and  colder  projection  of  the  darkness. 
And  then  his  curiosity  centred  about  the  more  complex 
problem  of  speed.  They  could  not  be  doing  more  than  a 
couple  of  knots.    What  was  the  old  fraud's  game?    Waiting 


268  COMMAND 

for  a  signal,  perhaps.  He  had  evidently  got  himself  and  his 
old  ship  inside  any  mines  that  had  been  laid  between  Chios 
and  Lesbos.  If  there  were  any.  Perhaps  he  was  waiting  for 
daylight. 

This  was  the  correct  solution.  Captain  Rannie  had  crept 
as  close  in  under  Lesbos  as  he  had  dared  according  to  the 
scanty  hints  he  had  gotten  from  Mr.  Dainopoulos,  who  had 
been  informed  by  a  Greek  sailor  from  a  captured  Bulgarian 
schooner  that  there  was  a  safe  passage  inshore  to  the  east  of 
Cape  Vurkos.  The  result,  however,  of  clearing  the  southern 
coast  of  Lesbos  in  safety  was  to  engender  a  slight  recklessness 
in  the  captain.  For  his  dangers  were  practically  over. 
Even  if  he  got  run  ashore  later,  they  could  get  the  cargo  out 
of  her.  And  he  had  made  too  much  distance  east  before 
turning  south,  so  that,  in  trying  to  raise  a  certain  point  on  the 
western  side,  he  had  grown  confused.  The  chart  was  not 
large  enough.  When  Mr.  Spokesly  appeared  once  more  on 
the  bridge.  Captain  Rannie  had  rung  "Slow"  on  the  tele- 
graph, and  was  endeavouring  to  locate  some  sort  of  light  upon 
the  immense  wall  of  blackness  that  rose  to  starboard. 

And  it  could  not  be  asserted  that  he  was  sorry  to  see  his 
chief  officer.  That  gentleman  could  not  do  much  now. 
Captain  Rannie,  with  his  binoculars  to  his  eyes,  was  trembUng 
with  excitement.  According  to  the  chart  he  ought  to  see  a 
red  light  on  his  port  bow  within  an  hour  or  two.  There  was  a 
good  reason  for  supposing  that  light  was  still  kept  burning 
even  during  the  war.  It  could  not  be  seen  from  the  north- 
ward and  was  of  prime  importance  to  coasting  vessels  in  the 
Gulf  when  making  the  turn  eastward  into  the  great  inland 
estuary  at  the  head  of  which  lay  the  city.  He  was  creeping 
along  under  the  high  western  shore  until  he  felt  he  could 
make  the  turn.  It  was  shallow  water  away  to  the  eastward, 
by  the  salt-works.  It  was  nearly  over.  He  would  get  the 
money,  in  gold,  and  wait  quietly  until  the  war  was  over,  and 
take  a  passage  back  to  China.  He  knew  a  valley,  the  Valley 
of  Blue  Primroses,  a  mere  fold  in  a  range  of  enormous  moun- 
tains, where  men  dwelt  amid  scenes  of  beauty  and  ineffable 
peace,  where  he  would  live,  too,  far  away  from  the  people  of 


COMMAND  269 

his  own  race,  and  far  from  the  detestable  rabble  of  ships.  He 
had  never  got  on  with  seamen.  Sooner  or  later,  they  always 
attacked  him  either  with  violence  or  invective.  He  would 
be  revenged  on  the  whole  pack  of  them ! 

He  heard  his  chief  officer  behind  him  and  maintained  his 
attitude  of  close  attention.  He  was  trembling.  One,  two, 
or  perhaps  three  or  four  hours  and  he  would  know  that  all 
was  well.  He  wished  he  could  see  better,  though.  During 
the  fog  there  had  been  a  curious  sense  of  satisfaction  in  his 
heart  because  he  knew  that,  whatever  happened,  his  defective 
vision  would  make  no  difference.  Oh,  he  could  see  all  right. 
But  those  damned  red  lights.  He  was  sure  there  was  noth- 
ing, yet.  That  chief  officer  of  his  had  gone  into  the  chart 
room.  Captain  Rannie  forgot  himself  so  far  as  to  titter. 
Imagine  a  simple-minded  creature  like  that  trying  to  put 
him  out  of  countenance!  Inquiry!  A  fine  show  he  would 
make  at  the  inquiry,  with  a  woman  in  his  cabin,  and  six 
months'  pay  in  his  pocket!  Ho-ho!  These  smart  young 
men!  He  hated  them.  There  was  only  one  kind  of  human 
being  he  hated  more  and  that  was  a  young  woman.  He  was 
perfectly  sincere.  The  Caucasian  had  come  to  him  to  appear 
like  a  puffy  white  fungus,  loathsome  to  come  in  contact  with. 
Without  ever  expressing  himself,  for  there  was  no  need,  he 
had  conceived  a  strong  predilection  for  the  Oriental.  He 
loved  the  permanence  of  the  type,  the  skins  like  yellow  silk, 
the  hair  like  polished  ebony,  the  eyes,  long  and  narrow,  like 
black  satin.  He  liked  to  have  them  on  the  ship,  silent,  in- 
curious, efficient,  devoid  of  ambition.  He  put  the  glasses  in 
the  little  locker  by  the  bridge-rail.  There  was  no  light  to  be 
seen. 

He  started  towards  the  chart-room  door  and  found  himself 
confronted  by  his  chief  officer.  He  would  have  brushed  past 
with  his  almost  feminine  petulance  had  not  Mr.  Spokesly 
once  again  seized  his  shoulder. 

"She  hasn't  got  steerage  way,"  said  the  mate. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  steerage  way?"  he  inquired 
sarcastically. 

"Do  you  know  where  you  are?"  demanded  Mr.  Spokesly, 


270  COMMAND 

steadily,  "or  is  it  your  intention  to  run  her  ashore?  I'm  only 
asking  for  information." 

Captain  Rannie  forced  himself  into  the  chart  room  and 
putting  on  his  glasses  examined  the  chart  afresh.  Mr. 
Spokesly  followed  him  in  and  shut  the  door. 

"I  won't  have  this,"  the  captain  began  rapidly,  laying  his 
hand  on  the  chart  and  staring  down  at  it.  "I  won't  have  it, 
I  tell  you.  You  force  yourself  in  upon  me  and  I  am  obliged 
to  speak  plainly." 

"I  only  want  to  tell  you,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  "that  you 
are  too  far  to  the  westward.  The  current  is  setting  you  this 
way,"  he  tapped  the  chart  where  a  large  indentation  bore 
away  due  south,  "and  by  daylight  you  won't  have  sea  room." 

"I  don't  beHeve  it!"  exclaimed  the  captain,  who  meant 
that  he  did  beHeve  it.  "I  have  taken  the  log  every  quarter 
of  an  hour." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  who  was  perfectly  at  ease  in 
this  sort  of  navigation,  "the  current  won't  show  on  the  log, 
which  is  away  out  any  way.  I  tell  you  again,  she's  going 
ashore.  And  it's  deep  water  all  round  here,  as  you  can  see. 
It  won't  take  a  very  heavy  wallop  to  send  her  to  the  bottom 
with  her  bows  opened  out  and  the  fore  peak  bulk-head  leak- 
ing already.  Put  her  about.  If  you  don't,"  said  the  mate 
with  his  hand  on  the  door  and  looking  hard  at  his  commander, 
"do  you  know  what  I'll  do?" 

He  did  not  wait  for  an  answer  but  went  out  and  closed  the 
door  sharply.  He  picked  up  the  telescope  and  examined  the 
horizon  on  the  port  bow.  He  could  discern  without  difficulty 
the  lofty  silhouette  of  a  rocky  promontory  between  the  ship 
and  the  faint  beginnings  of  the  dawn.  He  turned  to  the 
helmsman. 

"Hard  over  to  port,"  he  said  quietly,  and  reaching  out  his 
hand  he  rang  "Pull  ahead"  on  the  telegraph.  It  answered 
with  a  brisk  scratching  jangle,  and  a  rhythmic  tremor  passed 
through  the  vessel's  frame,  as  though  she,  too,  had  suddenly 
realized  her  peril. 

"You  do  what  I  say,"  he  warned  the  man  at  the  wheel,  who 
did  not  reply.     He  only  twirled  the  spokes  energetically,  and 


COMMAND  271 

the  little  ship  heeled  over  as  she  went  round.  Mr.  Spokesly 
looked  again  at  the  approaching  coast.  There  was  plenty  of 
room.     He  heard  the  door  open  and  the  captain  come  out. 

*'Easy  now,"  Mr.  Spokesly  said.  "Starboard.  Easy 
does  it.  That's  the  style.  Well,  do  you  believe  what  I  say 
now,  Captain?" 

"I'll   report   you — I'll   have   you   arrested — I'll   use   my 

power "  he  stuttered,  stopping  short  by  the  binnacle  and 

bending  double  in  the  impotence  of  his  anger.  "Remember, 
I  can  tell  things  about  you,"  he  added,  pointing  his  finger  at 
the  mate,  as  though  he  were  actually  indicating  a  visible 
mark  of  guilt. 

"Shut  up,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  staring  hard  through  the 
telescope.  "Hold  her  on  that  now.  Quartermaster,  till  I  give 
the  word.     There  will  be  enough  light  soon.'* 

Captain  Rannie  came  up  to  his  chief  officer's  shoulder  and 
whispered : 

"You're  in  this  as  deep  as  I  am,  remember." 

"I'm  not  in  it  at  all  and  don't  you  forget  it,"  bawled  Mr. 
Spokesly.  The  man  at  the  wheel  said  suddenly  in  a  querulous 
tone: 

"I  can't  see  to  steer." 

Captain  Rannie  had  fallen  back  against  the  binnacle  and 
the  sleeve  of  his  coat  covered  the  round  hole  through  which 
the  compass  could  be  seen. 

"You  threaten  me?"  he  whimpered.  "You  threaten  the 
master  of  the  ship?" 

"Threaten!"  repeated  Mr.  Spokesly,  looking  eagerly 
through  the  binoculars.  "  Couple  of  points  to  starboard,  you. 
I  reckon  she's  all  right  now,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  "but 
we'll  go  half  speed  for  a  bit,"  and  he  pulled  the  handle.  At 
the  sound  of  the  reply  gong  and  the  obsequious  movement  of 
the  pointer  on  the  dial  Captain  Rannie  was  galvanized  into 
fresh  life.  It  was  as  though  the  sound  had  reminded  him  of 
something. 

"You've  been  against  me  ever  since  you  came  aboard," 
he  annoimced.  "I  noticed  it  from  the  first.  You  had  made 
up  your  mind  to  give  me  all  the  trouble  you  possibly  could.     I 


272  COMMAND 

don't  know  how  it  is,  I'm  sure,  but  I  always  get  the  most 
insubordinate  and  useless  officers  on  my  ship.  You  go  in 
these  big  lines  and  get  exaggerated  ideas  of  your  own  im- 
portance, and  then  come  to  me  and  try  it  on  here.  How  can 
a  commander  get  on  with  officers  who  defy  him  and  incite  the 
crew  to  mutiny.^  Don't  deny  it.  What  you're  doing  now  is 
mutiny.  It  may  take  time,  but  I'll  do  it.  I'll  get  you  into 
all  the  trouble  I  possibly  can  for  this.  I — I — I'll  log  the 
whole  thing.  I'm  sorry  I  ever  shipped  you.  I  might  have 
known.  I  suspected  something  of  the  sort.  A  manner  you 
had  in  the  office.  Impudent,  insubordinate,  self-sufficient. 
On  the  beach.  Not  a  suit  of  clothes  to  your  back.  Had  to 
borrow  money — I  heard  all  about  it.  And  then  bringing  a 
woman  on  the  ship.  Told  some  sort  of  tale  to  the  owner. 
All  very  fine.  I  might  as  well  tell  you  now,  since  you've 
taken  this  attitude,  that  I  knew  we  wouldn't  get  on.  If  it 
had  been  a  regular  voyage  I  wouldn't  have  had  you.  It's 
been  nothing  but  trouble  since  you  came.  The  other  man 
was  bad  enough,  but  you     .     .     ." 

"Starboard,  Quartermaster.  Go  ahead,  Captain.  That's 
one  thing  about  you.  Nothing  matters  so  long  as  you  can  go 
on  talking.  Fire  away  if  it  eases  your  mind.  But  I'm  taking 
this  ship  in.  See  the  fairway?  If  you  make  anything  out  of 
this  trip,  and  I  dare  say  you'll  make  it  all  right,  don't  forget 
you  owe  it  to  me.  You  had  me  rattled  a  bit  when  you  ran 
into  that  ship  last  night.  I  thought  you  knew  what  you  were 
doing.  And  you  were  just  scared.  Sitting  over  there  on 
that  life-belt,  blowing  up  that  patent  vest  of  yours.  Thought 
I  didn't  notice  it,  eh?  So  busy  blowing  it  up  you  couldn't 
answer  me  when  I  called  you.     Master  of  the  ship!    Yah!" 

Captain  Rannie  was  visible  now,  a  high-shouldered  figure 
with  one  hand  in  his  pocket  and  the  other  resting  on  the  cor- 
ner of  the  chart  house.  During  the  night  he  had  put  on  a 
thick  woollen  cap  with  a  small  knob,  the  size  of  a  cherry,  on  the 
point  of  it,  and  it  made  him  look  like  some  fantastic  creature 
out  of  an  opera.  It  was  as  though  he  had  materialized  out 
of  the  darkness,  an  elderly  imp  foiled  in  his  mischievous 
designs.     He  stood  there,  looking  down  at  the  deck,  his 


COMMAND  273 

mouth  working  over  his  toothless  gums,  silently  yet  franti- 
cally marshalling  the  routed  forces  of  his  personality. 

"All  right!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  take  her,  I  hold  you 
responsible,  mind  that.  I  wash  my  hands  of  you.  You  in- 
cited my  crew  to  mutiny.     Defied  my  orders." 

Mr.  Spokesly  turned  suddenly  and  Captain  Rannie  rushed 
to  the  ladder  and  descended  halfway,  holding  by  the  handrail 
and  looking  up  at  Mr.  Spokesly *s  knees. 

"Don't  you  attack  me!"  he  shrilled.  "Don't  you 
dare     .     .     ."    He  paused,  breathing  heavily. 

Mr.  Spokesly  walked  to  the  ladder. 

"You'd  better  go  down  and  pull  yourself  together,"  he 
said  in  a  low  tone.  "You're  only  making  yourself  con- 
spicuous. I  can  manage  without  you.  And  if  you  come  up 
here  again  until  I've  taken  her  in,  by  heavens  I'll  throw  you 
over  the  side." 

He  walked  back  quickly  to  the  bridge-rail,  and  stared  with 
anxious  eyes  into  the  stretch  of  fairway.  He  could  not  help 
feeling  that  something  tremendous  was  happening  to  him. 
To  say  that  to  the  captain  of  the  ship !  But  he  had  to  keep 
his  attention  on  the  course.  Looking  ahead,  it  was  as 
though  he  had  made  the  same  error  of  which  he  had  accused 
the  Captain,  of  running  into  the  land.  On  the  port  side  the 
low  shore  in  the  half-light  ran  up  apparently  into  the  immense 
wall  of  blue  mountains  in  the  distance.  A  few  more  miles 
and  he  would  see.  He  looked  down  at  the  torn  strakes 
draggling  in  the  water  alongside,  at  the  smashed  boat,  and  the 
tangled  wreckage  on  the  foredeck.  She  was  very  much  down 
by  the  head  now,  he  noted.  Yet  they  were  making  it.  It 
would  be  any  moment  now  when  the  land  would  open  out  away 
to  the  eastward  and  he  would  give  the  word  to  bear  away. 

And  as  the  sun  came  up  behind  the  great  ranges  of  Asia 
and  touched  the  dark  blue  above  their  summits  with  an 
electric  radiance  so  that  the  sea  and  the  shore,  though  dark, 
were  yet  strangely  clear,  he  saw  the  white  riffle  of  contending 
currents  away  to  port,  and  got  his  sure  bearings  in  the  Gulf. 
And  as  he  rang  "Full  speed  ahead"  he  heard  a  step  behind 
him  and  felt  a  quick  pressure  of  his  arm.t 


274  COMMAND 

She  was  wearing  the  big  blue  overcoat,  which  was  Plouff's 
last  demonstration  of  his  own  peculiar  and  indefatigable  use- 
fulness, and  her  face  glowed  in  the  depths  of  the  up-turned 
collar.  The  morning  breeze  blew  her  hair  about  as  she 
peered  eagerly  towards  the  goal  of  her  desire. 

"  See ! "  she  cried  happily,  pointing,  one  finger  showing  at  the 
end  of  the  huge  sleeve.  "See  the  town?"  She  snatched  the 
glasses  and  held  them  to  her  eyes.     "Giaour  Ismir!" 

"You  don't  want  to  get  into  the  boat  after  all,"  he  said, 
putting  his  arm  about  her  shoulders. 

"Me?  No!  That  fool  said  the  ship  would  go  down. 
Look!     Oh,  quelle  jolie  mile  !  " 

"Where?"  he  said,  taking  the  glasses. 

"See!"  She  pointed  into  the  dim  gray  stretch  of  the 
waters  that  lay  like  a  lake  in  the  bosom  of  immense  moun- 
tains. He  looked  and  saw  what  she  meant,  a  spatter  of  white 
on  the  blue  hillside,  a  tiny  sparkle  of  hghts  and  clusters  of  tall 
cypresses,  black  against  the  mists  of  the  morning.  And  along 
the  coast  on  their  right  lay  a  gray-green  sea  of  foliage  where 
the  olive  groves  lined  the  shore.  Range  beyond  range  the 
mountains  receded,  barring  the  light  of  the  sun  and  leaving 
the  great  city  in  a  light  as  mysterious  as  the  dawn  of  a  new 
world.  Far  up  the  Gulf,  beyond  the  last  glitter  of  the  long 
sea  wall,  he  could  see  the  valleys  flooded  with  pale  golden 
light  from  the  hidden  sun,  with  white  houses  looking  down 
upon  the  waters  from  their  green  nests  of  cypresses  and 
oaks. 

"Why  don't  they  come  out?"  he  wondered  half  to  himself. 
"Are  they  all  asleep?" 

"Oh,  the  poor  ones,  they  must  come  out  in  a  boat.  They 
have  no  coal,"  she  retorted.  "Look!  there  is  a  little  ship 
sailing  out!    Tck!" 

He  looked  at  it.  Well,  what  could  they  do?  He  held  her 
close.  She  must  be  interpreter  for  him,  he  said.  Oh,  of 
course.  She  would  tell  them  what  a  hero  he  was,  how  he  had 
brought  them  safely  through  innumerable  dangers  for  her 
sake.  They  would  live,  see!  Up  there.  He  had  no  idea 
how  happy  they  would  be ! 


COMMAND  275 

The  little  sailing  boat  was  coming  out,  her  sail  Hke  a  fleck 
of  cambric  on  the  dark  water. 

He  said  there  was  no  need  to  tell  them  he  was  a  hero. 

"They  will  know  it,"  she  said,  "when  they  see  the  poor 
ship.  Oh,  yes,  I  will  tell  them  everything.  I  will  tell  them 
you  did  this  because  you  love  me." 

"Will  they  believe  it.'^"  he  asked  in  a  low  tone,  watching 
the  city  as  they  drew  nearer. 

"Believe?"  she  questioned  without  glancing  at  him.  "It 
is  nothing  to  them.  What  matter?  I  tell  them  something, 
that  is  all." 

He  did  not  reply  to  this,  merely  turning  to  give  an  order 
to  the  helmsman.  The  other  seaman  was  coming  along  the 
deck,  and  he  called  him  to  take  in  the  log  and  run  up  the 
ensign.  It  was  nothing  to  them,  he  thought,  repeating  her 
words  to  himself.  Nothing.  They  would  make  no  fine 
distinctions  between  himself  and  the  captain.  Yes,  she  was 
right  in  that.  He  went  into  the  chart  room  and  got  out  the 
flags  of  the  ship's  name.  She,  the  ship,  was  not  to  blame,  he 
muttered.  She  had  been  faithful.  "And  so  have  I!"  he 
cried  out  within  himself.  He  could  not  make  it  clear  even 
to  himself,  but  as  he  bent  the  grimy  little  flags  to  the  signal 
halyards  and  hoisted  them  to  the  crosstrees,  and  saw  them 
straighten  out  like  sheets  of  tin  in  the  breeze,  he  had  an  up- 
lifting of  the  heart.  He  rang  "Stop"  to  the  engine  room, 
and  went  over  to  Evanthia. 

"Go  down,"  he  said  gently,  "and  tell  the  captain  he  must 
come  up.  We  are  going  to  drop  the  anchor.  There  is  a  boat 
coming  alongside." 

He  stood  watching  the  boat  bearing  down  upon  them.  He 
tried  to  think  clearly.  Yes,  the  captain  must  come  up. 
The  complex  animosities  of  the  night  must  be  put  away. 
And  though  he  was  a  little  afraid  of  what  lay  before  him  in 
that  great  fair  city  rising  from  the  sea,  he  had  no  regrets  for 
the  past.     He  felt,  in  spite  of  everything,  he  had  been  faithful. 


CHAPTER  XV 

YOU  can  have  no  idea,"  said  the  flat  and  unemotional 
voice  by  Mr.  Spokesly's  shoulder,  "simply  no  idea 
how  miraculous  the  whole  business  seems  to  us. 
Astonished?  No  word  for  it.  We  were  flabbergasted.  For 
you  saved  the  situation.  You  arrived  in  the  nick,  positively 
the  nick,  of  time.  I  don't  go  beyond  the  facts  when  I  say 
things  were  looking  decidedly,  well  blue,  for  us.  Oh,  don't 
misunderstand  me.  No  ill-treatment.  Just  the  reverse,  in 
fact.  But  you  can  understand  we  weren't  bothering  much 
about  politeness  when  we  couldn't  get  anything  to  eat.  And 
that's  what  it  amounts  to." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly.  "I  must  say, 
finding  so  many  of  you  here,  has  surprised  me." 

"We  had  to  stay.  Couldn't  get  out,"  replied  the  other 
man,  shooting  a  frayed  cuflF  and  flicking  the  ash  delicately 
from  his  cigarette. 

They  were  seated,  as  it  were,  at  the  centre  of  that  vast 
crescent  which  the  city  forms  upon  the  flanks  of  Mount  Pagos. 
On  either  hand  the  great  curves  of  the  water-front  sprang 
outward  and  melted  into  the  confused  colours  of  the  distant 
shore.  From  their  vantage  point  on  the  roof  of  the  Sports 
Club,  they  could  see  in  some  detail  the  beauty  of  the  build- 
ings, the  marble  entrances,  the  cedar-wood  balconies  and  the 
green  jalousies  of  the  waterside  houses.  They  could  see  the 
boats  sailing  rapidly  across  the  harbour  from  Cordelio  in  the 
afternoon  breeze,  and  beyond,  bathing  the  whole  panorama 
in  a  strong  blaze  of  colour,  the  sun,  soon  to  set  in  the  purple 
distances  beyond  the  blue  domes  of  the  islands.  To  the  right 
the  shore  curved  in  a  semi-circular  sweep  to  form  the  head  of 
the  great  Gulf,  while  on  their  left  the  green  waters,  ruflfled  by 

276 


COMMAND  277 

the  breeze  and  given  a  magical  lustre  by  the  rays  of  the  setting 
sun,  stretched  away  into  the  distance. 

And  it  was  into  this  distance  that  Mr.  Spokesly,  his  elbow 
on  the  stone  balustrade  of  the  roof  of  the  Sports  Club,  was 
thoughtfully  directing  his  gaze.  Even  with  his  physical 
eyes  he  could  make  out  a  faint  dot,  which  he  knew  was  the 
Kalkis.  And  while  he  listened  to  the  remarks  of  his  com- 
panion, his  thoughts  went  back  to  the  final  catastrophe  of 
the  voyage.  He  had  been  leaning  over  watching  the  boat 
come  alongside,  his  hand  on  the  telegraph  to  put  her  astern, 
when  the  whole  ship  shook  violently,  there  was  a  grinding  of 
metal  on  metal  and  a  sound  as  of  a  load  of  loose  stones  pour- 
ing harshly  upon  hollow  iron  floors.  He  stared  round  him 
even  as  he  pulled  the  handle  back  to  full  astern,  searching  for 
some  hint  of  the  cause.  And  he  realized  he  had  been  search- 
ing for  something  else,  too.  He  had  been  voicelessly  calling 
for  Plouff  and  for  the  captain.  As  he  sat  calmly  looking 
out  across  the  water  at  tlie  wreck — for  he  did  not  disguise 
from  himself  the  fact  that  the  Kalkis  was  a  total  loss — ^he  was 
thinking  of  that  moment  when  he  had  to  decide  what  to  do 
and  had  turned  his  head  to  call  for  help.  And  he  knew  now 
that  if  he  had  called,  if  he  had  run  down  and  hammered  on 
that  man's  door  to  come  up  and  take  charge,  to  resume  the 
authority  he  had  abdicated  so  short  a  time  before,  there  would 
have  been  no  answer. 

That  was  the  point  around  which  his  memories  clustered 
now,  although  nobody  save  himself  was  aware  of  it.  Indeed, 
there  had  been  a  distinctly  admiring  note  in  this  gentleman's 
voice,  flat  and  unemotional  as  it  was  by  habit,  when  he  had 
climbed  up  the  ladder  and  set  foot  on  the  deck  of  the  Kalkis, 
"You  were  very  cool,"  he  had  said.  He  had  not  been  cool. 
There  had  been  a  moment,  just  after  he  had  pulled  that 
telegraph-handle,  and  the  ship,  instead  of  slowly  gaining 
sternway  and  moving  off  into  the  turbulence  of  her  wake,  had 
given  another  inexplicable  shudder,  and  the  bows  sank  into 
a  sudden  deathhke  solidity  when  he  rang  "stop,"  as  though 
that  noise  and  that  shudder  and  that  almost  imperceptible 
subsidence  had  been  her  death-throe,  the  last  struggle  of  her 


278  COMMAND 

complicated  and  tatterdemalion  career.  That  moment  had 
settled  the  Kalkis  and  it  had  nearly  settled  him,  too.  He  had 
turned  right  round  and  seen  the  man  at  the  wheel  methodi- 
cally passing  the  spokes  through  his  hands,  his  eye  on  the 
ship's  head,  his  ear  alert  for  the  word  of  command.  Mr. 
Spokesly  had  seen  this,  and  for  an  instant  he  had  had  a  shock- 
ing impulse  to  run  to  the  far  side  of  the  bridge  and  go  over, 
into  the  water.  A  moment  of  invisible  yet  fathomless  panic. 
Looking  back  at  it,  he  had  a  vague  impression  of  a  glimpse 
into  eternity — as  though  for  that  instant  he  had  really  died, 
slipping  into  an  unsuspected  crevice  between  the  past  and 
the  future.  .  .  .  The  man  at  the  wheel  was  looking  at 
him.  He  heard  a  voice,  the  voice  of  the  helmsman,  saying, 
"She  don't  steer,"  and  the  moment  was  past.  He  walked 
firmly  to  the  side  and  looked  down  at  the  boat,  and  heard 
someone  calling,  "Where  is  your  ladder?" 

And  the  next  thing  he  remembered  was  the  remark  of  this 
gentleman  when  he  arrived  on  deck:  "You  were  very  cool." 
He  had  said  in  reply:  "There  is  something  I  wish  to  tell  you. 
I  have  sent  for  the  captain  and  he  has  not  come  up.  I  must 
go  and  fetch  him."  He  remembered  also  the  dry  comment, 
"Oh,  so  you  are  not  the  captain?"  and  the  start  for  the  cabin 
as  Evanthia  came  out,  buttoning  her  gloves,  dressed  for 
walking.  He  remembered  that.  The  gentleman  who  had 
told  him  he  was  very  cool,  and  who  sat  beside  him  now  on  the 
roof  of  the  Sports  Club,  had  been  explaining  that  he  came 
as  an  interpreter  and  was  English  himself,  when  the  door 
opened  and  Evanthia  appeared.  He  had  stopped  short  and 
let  his  jaw  drop,  and  his  hand  slowly  reached  up  to  remove  his 
old  straw  hat.  The  others,  who  were  in  white  uniforms  with 
red  fezzes  on  their  heads,  stepped  back  involuntarily  in  stupe- 
faction at  such  an  unexpected  vision.  And  he,  dazed  by  his 
recent  experience,  stood  staring  at  her  as  though  he  were  as 
astonished  as  the  rest.  For  she  came  up  to  him  in  that  long 
stride  of  hers  that  always  made  him  feel  it  would  be  hopeless 
to  explain  to  her  what  was  meant  by  fear,  and  slipped  her 
hand  through  his  arm.  "My  husband,"  she  said,  smiling  at 
the  men  in  fezzes,  and  she  added,  in  their  own  tongue.     "My 


COMMAND  279 

father  was  Solari  Bey,  who  had  the  House  of  the  Cedars  near 
the  cemetery  m  Pera." 

It  was  she  who  had  been  "very  cool."  She  was  wearing 
her  black  dress  and  the  toque  with  the  high  feather.  Her 
eyes  glowed  mysteriously,  and  she  stood  beside  him  domi- 
nating them  all.  He  heard  the  astonished  interpreter 
mumbhng:  "Oh — ah!  ReaUy!  Dear  me!  Most  un- 
expected pleasure !  Plucky  of  you,  permit  me  to  say.  Oh — 
ah!  .  .  .'*  and  the  men  in  fezzes  making  respectful  noises 
in  their  throats  as  the  conversation  suddenly  became  un- 
intelligible. He  had  stood  silent,  watching  her  while  she 
spoke  that  bewildering  jargon,  the  words  rushing  from  her 
exquisite  lips  and  catching  fire  from  the  flash  of  her  eyes. 
There  was  a  potent  vitality  in  the  tones  of  her  voice  that 
seemed  to  him  must  be  irresistible  to  all  men.  She  spoke 
and  they  listened  with  rapt  attentive  gaze.  She  commanded 
and  they  obeyed.  They  laughed,  and  bent  their  tall  heads 
to  listen  afresh.  She  might  have  been  some  supernatural 
being,  some  marine  goddess,  come  suddenly  into  her  old  do- 
minions, and  they  her  devout  worshippers. 

He  heard  the  word  "captain"  and  opened  his  mouth  to 
speak  to  the  interpreter. 

"Is  he  EngHsh.?"  asked  that  gentleman.  "She  says  he  is 
a — ^well,  I  hardly  know  how  to  explain  just  what  she 
means.  .  .  .  You  had  better  tell  this  oj05cer  here.  He 
speaks  some  English.  Colonel  Krapin?  Ah,  quite  so.  The 
colonel  wishes  me  to  say,  he  must  see  the  captain.  Perhaps, 
if  you  will  allow  us,  we  can  sit  down  in  the  cabin,  he  says." 

And  when  they  had  entered  the  cabin,  and  were  seated 
about  the  table,  the  young  Jew,  who  had  been  cowering  in 
the  pantry,  was  brought  forth  and  ordered  in  crisp  tones  to 
descend  and  inform  the  captain. 

"I  knocked  at  the  door,"  Evanthia  told  them  quickly. 
"I  said,  a  boat  is  coming.  I  heard  him  move.  I  heard  him 
come  to  the  door  and  then,  he  strike  the  door  with  all  his 
force  while  I  have  my  hand  on  it.  The  door  shake,  boom  ! 
The  fool  is  afraid  for  anybody  to  go  in.  Ask  the  boy,  the 
young  Jew.    He  will  tell  you." 


280  COMMAND 

The  colonel  studied  his  sword,  which  he  had  laid  on  the 
table  before  him,  and  made  a  remark  in  a  low  tone.  He  had 
been  somewhat  embarrassed  by  the  absence  of  the  captain. 
Without  a  captain  and  without  the  papers  which  would  ap- 
prise them  all  of  the  exact  nature  of  the  cargo,  he  was  at  a  loss. 

And  the  young  Jew  had  come  stumbling  up  the  stairs,  his 
hands  outspread,  and  in  quavering  tones  said  something 
which  had  brought  the  oflficer  to  his  feet  and  grasping  his 
sword.     He  had  remembered  that  moment. 

"You  know,"  said  his  companion  with  a  slight  smile, 
"  really  you  know,  when  he  came  up  and  told  us  the  captain 
was  leaning  against  the  door  and  wouldn't  let  him  open  it — 
said  he  could  see  the  captain's  shoulder,  just  for  a  moment  I 
thought  you  had  been  let  in.  Poor  old  Krapin  was  in  a  funk. 
He  was  sure  he  was  in  a  trap.  You  remember  he  wouldn't 
go  down.     Made  me  go." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly  steadily,  "I  remember.  I 
couldn't  explain  because  I  didn't  know  myself.  He  thought 
I  was  in  the  plot,  I  suppose." 

"And  now  he  thinks  you  .  .  ."he  paused  and  flicked 
his  cigarette  again.  "H — m!  Down  there  in  that  dark 
passage,  I  was  ready  to  think  all  sorts  of  funny  things  myself. 
I  saw  his  shoulder.  Extraordinary  sensation  running  up  and 
down  my  spine.  I  said,  'Captain,  you  are  wanted.'  No 
answer,  of  course.  What  is  one  to  say  in  a  situation  of  that 
kind?  I  ask  you.  For  a  moment  I  stood  with  my  foot  in 
the  door  and  him  leaning  against  it.  It  reminded  me  of  my 
boyhood  days  in  London  when  all  sorts  of  people  used  to 
come  round  to  sell  things  and  try  to  keep  you  from  shutting 
the  door.  For  a  moment  I  wondered  if  he  thought  I  had 
come  off  in  a  boat  to  sell  him  something." 

He  gave  a  short  laugh  and  looked  down  with  reflective  eyes 
upon  the  people  walking  in  the  street  between  the  houses  and 
the  sea.  His  straw  hat  and  linen  suit  were  very  old  and 
frayed  and  his  shoes  were  of  canvas  with  rope  soles.  Yet 
he  gave  the  impression  of  being  very  smartly  attired.  A 
gentleman.  His  bow  tie  burst  forth  from  a  frayed  but  spot- 
less soft  collar.     A  cotton  handkerchief  with  a  spotted  blue 


COMMAND  281 

border  hung  fashionably  from  his  pocket.     And  his  features 
had  the  fine  tint  and  texture  of  a  manila  envelope. 

"Absurd,  of  course.  Yet  in  a  case  like  that  one  doesn't 
know  how  to  avoid  the  absurd.  And  finally,  when  I  gave  a 
smart  shove,  I  said:  *Excuse  me.  Captain,  I  really  must  .  .  .' 
the  shoulder  disappeared  and  there  was  a  most  awful  clatter 
and  a  thud.  And  then  a  silence.  Frankly  I  was  unable  to 
open  the  door  for  a  second,  I  was  so  upset.  I  half  expected 
the  thing  to  fly  open  and  a  crowd  of  people  to  rush  out  on  me. 
That  was  the  sensation  I  got  from  that  rumpus.  Imagine 
it!" 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  "I  can  believe  you  felt  strange. 
But  how  was  anybody  to  know.'^" 

"And  you  still  think  it  was  an  accident.'^"  said  his  com- 
panion curiously. 

"Yes,  it  was  an  accident,"  replied  Mr.  Spokesly  steadily. 

"H — m!     Well,  you  knew  him." 

"I  don't  believe  he  had  the  pluck  to  do  such  a  thing," 
went  on  Mr.  Spokesly.  "He  hadn't  the  pluck  of  a  louse, 
as  we  say.  And  you  must  remember  he  was  all  dressed  for 
going  ashore.  He  had  all  his  money  on  him,  all  his  papers. 
He  very  likely  had  his  hat  on.  But  for  some  reason  or  other, 
before  he  could  do  anything  and  speak  to  anybody,  he  had  to 
take  some  sort  of  pill.  Small,  square  white  tablets.  I've 
known  him  keep  out  of  the  way,  go  over  the  other  side  of  the 
bridge  and  turn  his  back  before  speaking  to  me.  I  could 
see  his  hand  go  to  his  mouth  as  he  came  along  the  deck.  I 
don't  know  for  sure.  Nobody  will  know  for  sure.  But  I 
know  what  I  think  myself." 

"Yes.f^  Some  private  trouble?  That's  the  usual  reason, 
isn't  it.?^" 

"He  had  a  grudge  against  everybody.  Thought  every- 
body was  against  him.  They  were,  but  that  was  because  he 
hadn't  the  sense  to  get  on  with  them." 

"Perhaps  it  was  a  woman,"  suggested  his  companion 
hopefully. 

"Him!  A  woman?  Do  you  think  a  woman  would  have 
anything  to  do  with  him?" 


282  COMMAND 

Mr.  Spokesly's  tone  as  he  put  this  question  was  warm. 
It  was  a  true  reflection  of  his  present  state  of  mind.  "My 
husband,"  Evanthia  had  said,  and  it  was  as  her  husband  he 
had  stepped  ashore.  And  he  was  conscious  of  a  glow  of 
pride  whenever  he  compared  other  men  with  himself.  She 
was  his.  As  for  the  captain,  the  very  idea  was  grotesque. 
He  stirred  in  his  chair,  moved  his  arm  on  the  balustrade. 
He  did  not  want  to  talk  about  the  captain.  The  words, 
"Perhaps  it  was  a  woman,"  did  not,  he  felt,  apply  exactly  to 
any  one  save  himself.  He  heard  his  companion  reply  doubt- 
fully, as  though  there  could  be  any  doubt: 

"Oh — ^well,  you  know,  one  has  heard  of  such  cases.  Still, 
as  you  say,  the  circumstantial  evidence  is  strong.  Those 
tablets  of  his  were  all  over  the  place,  1  remember." 

"He  had  the  medicine-chest  in  his  room,"  said  Mr.  Spoke- 
sly. 

"Yes.  The  Doctor  showed  me  where  he'd  been  mixing 
the  stuff  in  a  cup.  And  there  was  a  mould  for  making  them. 
So  you  think  he  had  no  intention  of     .     .     ." 

"No  intention  of  taking  anything  fatal  himself,"  was  the 
reply. 

"Ah!  Indeed!  That  opens  up  a  very  interesting  de- 
parture," said  the  other. 

"Not  now,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly.     "Not  now." 

"You'll  excuse  my  own  curiosity,"  said  his  friend,  "but 
when  I  found  him,  you  know,  eh?" 

"If  he  had  found  you,"  Mr.  Sp>okesly  remarked,  looking 
towards  the  mountains  to  the  eastward,  "  he  would  never  have 
taken  the  trouble  to  mention  it  to  a  soul  except  oflBcially.  I 
didn't  know  him  very  well,  but  I  should  say  he  is  better  off 
where  he  is.     I  shall  have  to  be  getting  along." 

They  rose  and  descended  the  broad  staircases  to  the  terrace 
facing  the  sea,  a  terrace  filled  with  tables  and  chairs.  Across 
the  Gulf  the  lights  of  Cordelio  began  to  sparkle  against  the 
intense  dark  blue  of  the  land  below  the  red  blaze  of  the  sun- 
set. It  was  the  hour  when  the  Europeans  of  the  city  come 
out  to  enjoy  the  breeze  from  the  Gulf,  making  their  appear- 
ance through  the  great  archway  of  the  Passage  Ejaemer  and 


COMMAND  283 

sitting  at  little  tables  to  drink  coffee  and  lemonade  tinctured 
with  syrup.  They  were  coming  out  now,  parties  of  Aus- 
trians  and  Germans,  with  fattish  spectacled  husbands  in 
uniforms  with  fezzes  atop,  and  tall  blonde  women  in  toilettes 
that  favoured  bold  colour  schemes  or  sharp  contrasts  of  black 
and  white,  with  small  sun-shades  on  long  handles.  There 
were  Greeks  and  Roumanians  and  here  and  there  a  quiet 
couple  of  English  would  sink  unobtrusively  into  chairs  in  a 
corner.     And  a  band  was  tuning  up  somewhere  out  of  sight. 

Mr.  Spokesly  plunged  straight  down  the  steps  of  the 
terrace,  past  a  group  of  Austrian  girls  who  were  taking  their 
seats  at  a  table,  and  who  eyed  him  with  lively  curiosity,  and 
started  towards  the  custom  house,  his  companion,  whose 
name  was  Marsh,  hurrying  after  him. 

"By  the  way,"  said  he.  "I  would  like,  some  time,  to 
introduce  you  to  some  of  the  crowd.  They  are  really  very 
decent.  They  have  made  things  much  easier  for  us  than  you 
might  imagine.  Of  course,  for  the  sake  of  my  family  and 
myself  I  have  kept  well  in  with  them;  but  quite  apart  from 
the  expediency  of  it,  it  has  been  a  pleasure.  You  have  been 
here  nearly  a  week  now,"  he  went  on,  smiling  a  little,  "and 
we  have  seen  nothing  of  you." 

Mr.  Spokesly  muttered  something  about  being  busy  all 
day  on  the  ship,  getting  the  cargo  out  of  her. 

"Yes,  but  why  not  come  round  now.^  It  is  only  just 
through  the  Passage,  near  Costi's.  I  can  assure  you  they  are 
a  very  interesting  lot." 

"Well,  it's  Hke  this,  Mr.  Marsh.  I'm  under  orders,  you 
see.  And  I've  got  this  launch  now  and  I'm  not  so  sure  of  the 
engine  that  I  want  to  get  stuck  with  it  after  dark.  I'll  tell 
you  what.     I'll  come  to-morrow,  eh?" 

And  to  this  Mr.  Marsh  was  obliged  to  agree.  Mr.  Spoke- 
sly dived  into  the  custom  house  and  made  for  the  waterside, 
where  a  number  of  gasolene  launches  were  tied  up.  It  was 
one  of  these  which,  on  account  of  the  gasolene  in  the  cargo  of 
the  Kcdkis,  he  had  been  able  to  get  for  his  own  use.  He  had 
had  long  struggles  with  the  engine,  towing  it  out  with  him  to 
the  ship  and  working  on  it  while  the  men  loaded  the  barges. 


^84  COMMAND 

Now  it  was  in  pretty  good  shape;  he  understood  it  well  enough 
to  anticipate  most  of  the  troubles.  He  got  down  into  it  now 
and  took  off  his  coat  to  start  the  engine. 

It  was  not  that  he  did  not  appreciate  the  offer  of  his  friend. 
The  crowd  alluded  to  were  well  enough  no  doubt — clerks  and 
subordinate  officials  who  had  gradually  formed  a  sort  of 
international  coterie  who  met  in  a  wing  of  one  of  the  consu- 
lates. Indeed,  one  of  them  lived  in  a  house  not  far  from 
himself  on  the  hillside  at  Bairakli.  But  he  was  in  a  mood 
just  now  which  made  him  reluctant  to  mix  with  those  highly 
sophisticated  beings.  He  wanted  to  go  home.  As  he 
steered  his  launch  through  the  entrance  of  the  tiny  harbour 
and  made  straight  across  the  Gulf  towards  the  eastern  end, 
he  was  thinking  that  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  a 
home.  And  she  had  done  it!  With  a  cool  indomitable  will 
she  had  set  about  it.  He  knew  he  could  never  have  achieved 
this  felicity  by  himself.  She  had  held  out  her  hand  for  money 
and  he  had  handed  it  over  to  her.  If  she  had  not  watched 
he  would  not  have  had  nearly  so  much,  she  told  him,  and  he 
believed  her.  That  was  the  key  to  his  mood.  He  crouched 
in  the  stern  of  his  boat  and  kept  his  eyes  upon  the  house,  a 
white  spot  against  the  steep  brown  slope  of  the  mountain. 
That  house,  rented  from  a  poverty-stricken  Greek  who  had 
left  most  of  the  furniture,  and  an  old  woman,  who  had  lived  all 
her  life  in  the  village,  as  servant,  represented  for  Mr.  Spokesly 
his  entire  visible  and  comprehensible  future.  This  was 
another  key  to  his  mood.  It  was  as  though  he  had  suddenly 
cashed  in  on  all  his  available  resources  of  happiness,  hypothe- 
cating them  for  the  immediate  and  attainable  yet  romantic 
present.  By  some  fluke  of  fortune  he  could  see  that  he 
actually  held  within  his  grasp  all  that  men  toil  and  struggle 
for  in  this  world,  all  that  they  desire  in  youth,  all  that  they 
remember  in  age.  But  he  had  no  certainty  of  the  perma- 
nence of  all  this,  and  he  lived  in  a  kind  of  anxious  ecstasy, 
watching  Evanthia  each  day  with  eager  hungry  eyes,  waiting 
with  a  sort  of  incredulous  astonishment  for  the  first  shadow 
to  cross  the  dark  mirror  of  their  lives. 

As  it  must,  he  told  himself.     This  could  not  last  for  ever. 


COMMAND  285 

And  sometimes  he  found  himself  trying  to  imagine  how  it 
would  end.  To-night  he  was  preoccupied  with  the  discovery 
that  each  day,  as  the  end  approached,  he  was  dreading 
it  more  and  more.  He  had  tried  to  explain  this  to  her  as  they 
walked  in  the  garden  under  the  cypresses  and  looked  across 
the  dark  waters  of  the  Gulf,  and  she  had  smiled  and  said: 
*'Ah,  yes!"  She  was  still  a  mystery  to  him,  and  that  was 
another  grief,  since  he  did  not  yet  suspect  that  the  mystery 
of  a  woman  is  simply  a  screen  with  nothing  behind  it.  She 
smiled  in  her  alluring  inscrutable  way  and  he  held  her  desper- 
ately to  him,  wondering  in  what  form  the  fate  of  their 
separation  would  appear. 

And  when  he  saw  that  she  had  not  come  down  to  the  jetty 
to  meet  him,  as  she  had  done  on  previous  nights,  he  instantly 
accepted  her  absence  as  a  signal  of  change.  Yet  at  the  back 
of  his  mind  there  burned  a  thin  bright  flame  of  intelligence 
that  told  him  the  truth.  Evanthia  had  that  supreme  virtue 
of  the  courageous — her  dissimulation  was  neither  clumsy  nor 
cruel.  It  was  as  much  a  part  of  her  as  was  her  skin,  her  hair, 
her  amber  eyes.  He  knew  in  his  heart  this  was  so  and  made 
of  it  a  rack  on  which  he  tortured  himself  with  thoughts  of  her 
fidelity.  Each  day  the  difference  between  this  experience 
and  the  shallow  clap-trap  intrigues  he  had  known  became 
more  marked  to  him.  The  thought  of  her  out  there,  hidden 
away  from  other  men,  with  her  delicious  graces  of  body  and 
lucidity  of  mind,  for  him  alone,  was  almost  too  poignant  for 
him.  As  he  came  alongside  the  little  staging,  and  made  fast, 
he  returned  again  to  the  foreboding  thought  of  the  day. 
There  would  come  an  end.  And  beyond  the  end  of  this  he 
could  see  nothing  but  darkness,  nothing  save  an  aching 
void. 

Nevertheless,  as  he  came  up  from  the  jetty  and  stood  for  a 
moment  in  the  road  which  followed  the  curve  of  the  shore, 
and  listened  to  the  sounds  of  the  village  that  nestled  in  the 
valley  like  a  few  grains  of  light  in  a  great  bowl  of  darkness,  he 
was  conscious  of  something  which  he  could  not  successfully 
analyze  or  separate  from  his  tumultuous  emotions.  He  put 
it  to  himself,  crudely  enough,  when  he  muttered :  "  I  shall  have 


286  COMMAND 

to  take  a  hand."  He  was  discovering  himself  in  the  act  of 
submitting  once  more  to  outside  authority.  Looking  back 
over  his  life,  he  saw  that  as  his  hitherto  invincible  habit  of 
mind.  He  saw  himself  turning  round  to  call  the  captain. 
And  now  he  was  the  captain.  And  Evanthia*s  enigmatic 
gaze  was  perhaps  the  expression  of  her  curiosity.  She  was 
above  all  things  in  the  world,  stimulating.  He  found  himself 
invigorated  to  an  extraordinary  degree  by  his  intimacy  with 
that  resourceful,  courageous,  and  lovable  being,  who  would 
never  speak  of  the  future,  waving  it  away  with  a  flick  of  her 
adorable  hand  and  looking  at  him  for  an  instant  with  an 
intent,  unfathomable  stare.  And  as  he  started  to  climb  the 
hillside,  setting  the  loose  stones  rolling  in  the  gullies  and 
rousing  a  dog  to  give  forth  a  series  of  deep  ringing  notes 
like  a  distant  gong,  he  saw  that  the  initiative  rested  with 
himself.  He  would  have  to  take  a  hand.  It  would  not  do 
for  him  to  imagine  they  could  remain  like  this  in  almost 
idyUic  felicity.  The  ship  would  be  unloaded  in  a  week  or  so 
and  nothing  would  remain  but  to  let  the  water  into  her  after- 
hold  and  sink  her,  according  to  the  commandant's  orders,  in 
the  fair  way.  But  he  could  not  let  himself  sink  back  into  a 
slothful  obscurity.  He  had  no  interior  resources  beyond 
his  almost  desperate  passion  for  this  girl  who  seemed  to 
accept  him  as  an  inevitable  yet  transient  factor  in  her  destiny, 
a  girl  who  conveyed  to  him  in  subtle  nuances  a  chaotic  im- 
pression of  sturdy  fidelity  and  bizarre  adventurousness. 
That  was  one  of  the  secrets  of  her  personality — the  main- 
tenance of  their  relations  upon  a  plane  above  the  filth  and 
languor  of  the  flesh,  yet  unsupported  by  the  conventional 
props  of  tradition  and  honour.  For  she  had  so  just  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  functions  and  possibilities  of  love  in  human  life 
that  he  could  never  presume  upon  the  absence  of  those  props. 
It  amazed  him  beyond  his  available  powers  of  expression,  that 
in  giving  him  herself  she  gave  more  than  he  had  ever  im- 
agined. She  had  given  him  an  enormously  expanded  com- 
prehension of  character,  an  insight  into  the  secrets  of  his  own 
heart.  And  it  was,  perhaps,  this  new  knowledge  of  what  he 
himself  might  do,  that  was  impelling  him  to  "take  a  hand." 


COMMAND  287 

When  he  reached  the  gate  set  in  the  wall  of  the  garden,  he  had 
decided  to  take  a  hand  at  once.     He  had  a  plan. 

And  it  would  have  been  a  valuable  experience  for  him, 
advancing  him  some  distance  in  spiritual  development,  had 
he  been  able  to  see  clearly  and  understandingly  into  her  alert 
and  shrewdly  logical  mind  when  he  told  her  his  plan.  For  she 
saw  through  it  in  a  flash.  It  was  romantic,  it  was  risky,  it 
was  for  himself.  It  might  easily  be  for  her  ultimate  good, 
yet  she  saw  he  was  not  thinking  of  that  at  all.  And  because 
he  was  romantic,  because  he  visualized  their  departure  as  a 
flight  into  a  fresh  paradise,  they  two  alone,  she  turned  to  him 
with  one  of  her  ineffably  gracious  gestures  and  loved  him  per- 
haps more  sincerely  than  ever  before.  It  was  this  romantic 
streak  in  the  dull  fabric  of  his  personality  which  had  at- 
tracted her,  even  if  she  had  not  perceived  the  emotional  repose 
that  same  dullness  afforded  her.  It  was  like  being  in  a  calm 
harbour  at  anchor  compared  with  that  other  adventure, 
which  had  been  a  voyage  through  storms  and  whirlpools,  a 
voyage  that  would  inevitably  end  in  shipwreck  and  stranding 
for  her  anyhow. 

"I  could  do  it,"  he  was  saying.  "They  don't  know  about 
it,  but  that  boat  is  the  fastest  they've  got  in  the  harbour  and, 
with  luck,  it  would  be  easy  to  get  away." 

"To  where?"  she  whispered,  looking  out  into  the  fragrant 
gloom  of  the  high-walled  garden  below  them. 

"  Anywhere,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Once  outside,  we'd  be  picked 
up.     Or  we  could  go  to  Phyros,  and  get  home  from  there." 

"Home?" 

"Yes,  home.  England.  I  want  you  to  come  with  me, 
stay  with  me,  for  good.  I  can't — I  can't  do  without  you. 
I've  been  thinking  every  day,  every  night.  There's  nobody 
else  now." 

She  shot  a  glance  at  him.  He  was  leaning  forward  in  his 
chair,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor  thinking,  in  a  warm  tumult  of 
desire,  of  the  adventure.  He  saw  the  boat  bounding  through 
the  fresh  green  wave-tops  into  the  deeper  blue  of  the  ^Egean, 
he  steering,  with  his  arm  around  her  form  which  would  be 
enfolded  in  that  same  big  coat,  making  a  dash  for  freedom. 


288  COMMAND 

And  as  she  patted  his  arm  gently,  she  knew  he  was  not 
thinking  of  her  save  as  a  protagonist  in  a  romantic  episode. 
For  to  ask  her  to  go  to  England  was,  from  her  point  of  view, 
the  reverse  of  a  dash  for  freedom.  In  her  clear,  cold,  limited 
mentality,  equipped  only  with  casual  and  fragmentary  tales 
told  by  the  ignorant  or  the  prejudiced  products  of  mid- 
European  culture,  England  was  the  home  of  debased  ideals 
and  gloomy  prisons,  of  iron-hard  creeds  and  a  grasping  cun- 
ning avarice.  Her  mercenaries  were  devoted  to  the  conquest 
and  destruction  of  all  that  made  life  beautiful  and  gay.  Out 
of  her  cold  wet  fogs  her  legions  came  to  despoil  the  fair  places 
of  the  earth.  And  his  fidelity,  his  avowed  abandonment  of 
the  sentiments  of  the  past,  inspired  her  more  with  wonder  and 
delight  than  a  reciprocal  passion.  For  she  was  under  no 
illusions  as  to  her  own  destiny.  She,  too,  knew  this  would 
not  last  for  ever.  Her  quick  mind  took  in  all  the  fantastic 
possibilities  of  his  plan,  and  she  perceived  immediately  the 
necessity  of  giving  her  consent.  He  must  be  kept  in  this 
mood  of  exalted  happiness.  Intuitively  she  knew  that  she 
herself  fed  on  that  mood,  in  which  he  rose  superior  to  the 
normal  level  of  his  days.  And  in  spite  of  her  dismay  at  the 
mere  thought  of  going  out  again  upon  the  sea,  leaving  every- 
thing she  understood  and  loved,  leaving  a  land  of  whose  spirit 
and  atmosphere  she  was  a  part,  she  asked  him  when  he 
wanted  to  go. 

"Not  yet,"  he  replied,  still  gazing  at  the  ground,  and  she 
looked  at  him  with  amazement.  She  could  hardly  repress  an 
exclamation  at  his  credulity.     He  actually  believed  she  would 

go- 

"And  we  will  take  all  our  money.?"  she  suggested. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  he  agreed  absently.  It  was  part  of  his 
happiness  to  put  everything  in  her  hands.  There  was  for 
him  a  supremely  sensuous  delight  in  the  words,  "It  is  all  for 
you.  Take  it.  Without  you,  it  is  of  no  use  to  me."  He 
was  unable  to  imagine  a  more  complete  surrender,  nor  could 
he  believe  that  a  woman  would  accept  it  save  at  the  price  of 
integrity.  Evanthia  was  like  that.  Money  was  never  her 
preoccupation,  but  she  never  forgot  it.     She  had  none  of  the 


COMMAND  289 

futilities  of  book-education  filling  her  mind  like  dusty  and 
useless  furniture,  so  that  her  consciousness  of  money  was  as 
clear  and  sharp  as  her  consciousness  of  food  or  pain.  And  a 
sudden  perception  of  his  faith  in  her,  his  profound  absorption 
in  his  own  romantic  illusions,  struck  her  to  a  puzzled  silence, 
which  he  took  for  assent  and  sympathy.  She  looked  away 
from  him  and  out  across  the  sea.     It  was  too  easy. 

"Evanthia,"  he  whispered,  and  she  turned  her  full,  direct 
untroubled  gaze  upon  him  with  a  swift  and  characteristic 
movement  of  the  chin. 

"I  love  you,"  he  muttered  and  touched  her  arm  with  his 
lips  in  a  gesture  of  adoration.  She  looked  at  him  with  glow- 
ing amber  eyes.  Sometimes  he  almost  terrified  her  with  the 
violence  of  his  passionate  abnegation.  She  had  never  seen 
anything  like  it  before.  He  became  gloomy  with  love,  she 
noted;  and  her  quick  wit  transfused  the  thought  into  a 
presentiment.  She  would  break  the  spell  of  his  infatuation 
with  a  quick  movement  and  lure  him  back  to  earth  with  a 
smile.     She  laughed  now  as  he  touched  her. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  "you  wish  to  come  to  England  with 
me?" 

"Ah,  yes!"  she  sighed  sweetly,  nestling  against  him. 
"You  an'  me,  in  England." 

"Some  time  next  week  I'll  be  ready,"  he  said.  "You  must 
get  plenty  of  food  for  the  boat.  And  the  money.  Bring 
that." 

She  sat  leaning  against  him,  his  arms  about  her,  but  at 
these  words  she  stared  past  him  into  the  darkness  of  the  room 
thinking  quickly.     Next  week! 

"I  am  getting  the  engineer  to  make  me  a  silencer,  the  boat 
makes  so  much  noise,"  he  explained. 

"I  understand,"  she  murmured  absently,  slipping  out  of 
his  arms.  She  must  send  into  the  town,  she  thought.  Amos 
must  go. 

"To-morrow,"  he  went  on,  "I  go  to  the  Club  in  the  Aus- 
trian Consulate.  Mr.  Marsh  asked  me  to  go.  I  may  be  a 
little  late.     You  won't  mind?" 

She  turned  upon  him  in  the  darkness  where  she  was  feeHng 


290  COMMAND 

for  the  lamp,  and  gave  him  a  blank  stare.  He  never  saw  it; 
and  if  he  had  he  would  never  have  been  able  to  understand 
that  at  that  moment  she  could  have  killed  him  for  his  stu- 
pidity. He  sat  in  silence  wondering  a  little,  and  then  the 
emotion  had  passed  and  she  gave  her  dehcious  throaty 
chuckle. 

"Ah,  no,  mein  Lieber.     I  do  not  mind." 

"Why  do  you  sometimes  call  me  your  Lieber  .^"  he  asked 
playfully.     "Is  it  a  pet  name?" 

The  lamp  was  aUght  and  he  saw  her  eyes  smouldering  as 
she  raised  them  from  the  flame  she  w^as  adjusting. 

"Yes,  Lieber  means  love,"  she  said  gravely. 

"You  are  not  sorry  we  did  not  go  to  Athens?"  he  asked, 
smiling. 

"To  Athens  .  .  ."  her  face  for  a  moment  was  blank, 
so  completely  had  she  forgotten  the  ruse  she  had  employed 
in  Saloniki.  ".  .  .  ah,  I  understand.  Athens?  No!" 
She  turned  the  lamp  up  and  began  to  set  the  table  for  sup- 
per. 

This  was  the  hour  that  appealed  to  him  more  than  anything 
in  their  life.  To  see  her  moving  about  in  a  loose  cotton  frock, 
her  bare  feet  thrust  into  Turkish  slippers,  to  follow  the  hne 
of  her  vigorous  supple  body  beneath  the  thin  material,  and 
the  expert  rapidity  of  her  hands  as  she  prepared  the  simple 
meal  of  stew  and  young  figs  in  syrup,  red  wine  and  coffee  with 
candied  dates,  was  sheer  ecstasy  for  him.  He  would  sit  in 
the  dusk  of  the  window,  sprawhng  in  his  chair,  his  head  sunk 
on  his  breast,  breathing  heavily  as  he  devoured  every  motion 
with  his  eyes.  It  never  occurred  to  him  to  wonder  what  she 
was  thinldng  about  as  she  worked  with  her  eyes  cast  down 
towards  the  white  table  or  turning  towards  the  door  to  call  in 
musical  plangent  accents  to  the  old  woman  in  the  kitchen 
below.  She  was  an  object  of  love  and  for  him  had  no  ex- 
istence outside  of  his  emotional  necessities.  He  asked  in 
lazy  contentment  if  she  regretted  Athens.  Her  eyes,  de- 
clined upon  the  table,  were  inscrutable  as  she  reflected  that 
the  young  Jew  was  even  then  in  the  city  finding  out  for  her 
whether  any  officers  had  arrived  from  Aidin. 


COMMAND  291 

"We'll  have  a  house  like  this,  in  England,"  he  remarked, 
smiling.     "And  you  will  forget  all  about  Saloniki,  eh?" 

He  would  expect  this,  of  course,  she  thought.  It  was  the 
duty  of  a  woman  selected  by  a  romantic  to  forget  everything 
in  the  world  except  himself.  She  was  thinking  of  Saloniki 
even  as  she  smiled  into  his  eyes  and  nodded.  And  Saloniki 
was  thinking  of  her.  It  was  at  this  hour  that  Mrs.  Daino- 
poulos  said  to  her  husband: 

"You  are  sure  they  reached  port  safe?*' 

Mr.  Dainopoulos,  who  had  heard,  by  his  own  intricate  and 
clandestine  methods,  of  the  unconventional  arrival  of  his 
ship  in  Giaour  Ismir,  and  who  was  not  bothering  himself 
very  much  about  either  Evanthia  or  Mr.  Spokesly  since  both 
had  served  his  turn,  remarked: 

"Yes,  aU  safe." 

"You  know,  Boris,  I  should  never  forgive  myself  if  any- 
thing happened  to  her.  If  he  did  not  marry  her  as  soon  as 
they  got  on  shore.  I  did  it  for  the  best.  Encouraged  it,  I 
mean.     I  do  beUeve  he  was  trustworthy." 

"Don't  you  worry,  Alice,"  he  said  gruffly.  "You'll  see 
that  girl  again.  What  you  like  I  get  you?  I  done  a  beeg 
business  to-day." 

"What  was  that?  How  much?"  she  asked  with  assumed 
interest.  She  did  not  want  to  know,  but  she  knew  he  liked 
her  to  ask. 

"Oh,  the  British  give  me  the  paper  for  a  big  cargo  I  got 
for  'em.  You  count  this,  now:  Thirty— five — thousand — 
pound.  Eh?  Ha — ^ha!"  He  leaned  forward  and  covered 
her  hands  with  kisses  murmuring:  "My  Httle  wife!  My 
little  wife!    What  shall  I  buy  my  little  English  wife,  eh?" 

And  when  Mr.  Spokesly  asked  Evanthia  if  she  would  for- 
get it  all  when  she  got  to  England  she  stood  by  the  table, 
stricken  to  a  sudden  and  mysterious  inmiobihty  and  regarded 
him  with  wide  amber-coloured  eyes.  Then  she  lifted  a  finger 
to  her  Hps. 

There  was  a  noise  below.  The  iron  gate  banged.  Evan- 
thia, her  finger  to  her  Hps,  her  eyes  shining  like  stars,  came 
to  the  window  and  leaned  over. 


292  COMMAND 

"Art  thou  come  back?'*  she  called  in  Greek.  And  the 
voice  of  the  young  Jew  replied : 

"Here  I  am,  Madama.     I  am  returned  from  the  city." 

"Any  news  of  the  Franks  at  Aidin.f^"  she  asked,  smiHng  at 
Mr.  Spokesly  where  he  sat  in  silent  admiration. 

"They  are  here,  Madama.  Three,  one  of  them  the  man 
you  described  to  me,  young  and  full  of  laughter." 

*'Aiee !  A  good  servant  thou  art.  I  will  keep  thee 
always."     She  turned  to  her  lover. 

"Ah,  yes!"  she  sighed.  "A  house  hke  this  in  England. 
And  I  have  forgot  Saloniki  now.  Supper  is  ready,  mein 
Lieher,'^ 


CHAPTER  XVI 

YEARS  afterwards,  when  Mr.  Spokesly,  a  cool  and 
established  person  in  authority  in  a  far  distant 
territory,  would  turn  his  thoughts  back  occasionally 
to  the  great  period  of  his  life,  he  would  wonder  how  long  it 
might  have  lasted  had  he  not  gone  into  the  city  that  calm 
evening,  had  he  never  met  that  gay  and  irrepressible  young 
man.  There  was  no  bitterness  in  his  reflections.  He  saw, 
in  that  future  time,  how  far  removed  from  the  firm  shores  of 
reality  he  and  Evanthia  were  floating,  his  romantic  exaltation 
supporting  them  both  while  she  watched  him  with  a  suspicion 
of  amazement  in  her  eyes. 

For  there  was  a  point  in  that  period  in  the  white  stone 
house  on  the  mountain  side,  high  above  the  village  in  the 
quiet  valley,  when  Evanthia  herself  wondered  what  was  going 
to  happen.  She  trembled  for  a  while  upon  the  verge  of 
acceptance  and  surrender.  They  would  go,  she  submitting 
to  his  command,  and  take  that  chance  together  which  he  was 
for  ever  picturing  in  his  mind  as  a  rush  for  freedom  and  ulti- 
mate happiness.  Almost  she  lost  that  poise  of  spirit  which 
enabled  her  to  mystify  and  subjugate  him.  Almost  she 
succumbed  to  the  genius  and  beauty  of  the  place,  to  the 
intensity  of  his  emotions  and  the  romantic  possibilities  of  the 
future  he  desired  to  evoke.  For  one  brief  moment,  so  swiftly 
obliterated  that  he  was  hardly  aware  of  it  before  it  was  gone, 
she  saw  herself  united  to  him,  thinking  his  thoughts,  breath- 
ing his  hopes,  facing  with  her  own  high  courage  the  terrors 
of  life  in  an  unknown  land,  for  ever.  He  remembered  it 
(and  so  did  she)  for  many  years,  that  one  ineffable  flash  of 
supreme  happiness  when  their  spirits  joined. 

They  had  been  down  the  steep  hillside  and  across  the 
Cordelio  road  to  the  shore  where  there  stood  a  blue  bath 

293 


«94  COMMAND 

house  built  out  over  the  water.  As  they  had  scrambled  and 
slid  among  the  shingle  and  loose  boulders,  the  upper  reaches 
of  the  mountains  touched  to  glowing  bronze  by  the  setting 
sun  while  they  were  in  a  kind  of  golden  twilight,  there  came  a 
call  from  the  next  house  and  they  saw  a  white  figure  at  the 
heavy  iron  gate  in  the  garden  wall.  And  by  the  time  they 
were  among  the  houses  of  the  village  and  stared  at  by  the 
shy,  silent  housewives  who  were  gathered  about  the  great 
stone  troughs  of  the  wash  house,  they  were  joined  by  Esther, 
Evanthia's  friend.  And  together  the  three  of  them,  with 
towels  and  bathing  suits,  went  down  to  the  blue  bath-house 
as  the  sparse  lights  of  the  city  began  to  sparkle  across  the 
water. 

Mr. .  Spokesly  liked  Esther.  She  traversed  every  one  of 
his  preconceived  notions  of  a  Jewess  and  of  a  Russian,  yet  she 
was  both.  She  had  come  down  from  Pera  with  her  Armenian 
husband,  a  tall,  thin,  dark  man  with  a  resounding  and  cavern- 
ous nose,  who  held  a  position  in  what  he  called  the  Public 
Debt.  He  had  come  over  with  her  one  evening  and  paid 
an  extremely  formal  call,  presenting  his  card,  which  bore  the 
words  "Public  Debt"  in  one  corner  below  his  polysyllabic 
name.  Mr.  Spokesly  liked  Esther.  She  was  a  vigorous, 
well-knit  woman  of  thirty,  with  an  animated  good-humoured 
face  and  capable  limbs.  He  liked  her  broken  Enghsh,  which 
was  uttered  in  a  hoarse  sensible  voice.  He  liked  her  because 
she  was  a  strong  advocate  of  his.  He  heard  her  muttering 
away  to  Evanthia  in  a  husky  undertone  and  he  was  perfectly 
well  aware  that  she  was  taking  his  part  and  proving  to 
Evanthia  that  she  would  be  a  fool  if  she  did  not  stay  by  him. 
She  would  talk  to  him  alone,  too,  and  repeat  what  she  had 
said. 

"You  take  her  away,"  she  urged.  "Soon  as  you  can. 
Me  and  my  'usban',  we  go  to  Buenos  Aires  soon  as  we  can. 
This  place  no  good." 

"I  want  her  to,"  he  said.     "She  says  yes,  too." 

"She  say  yes?  She  say  anything.  She  like  to  fool  you. 
I  know.  I  tell  her — ^you  stay  wis  your  'usban'.  Englishmen 
good  'usban 's,  eh?" 


COMMAND  295 

"Esther,  tell  me  something.  You  think,  when  I  say,  Come, 
she'll  come  with  me?     You  think  so?" 

For  an  instant  Esther's  firmly  modelled  and  sensible 
features  assumed  an  expression  inexplicable  to  the  serious 
man  watching  them.  For  an  instant  she  was  on  the  verge  of 
telling  him  the  truth.  But  Esther  was  empirically  aware 
of  the  importance  of  moods  in  the  development  of  truth; 
and  she  said  with  great  heartiness:  "I  am  tellin'  you,  yes! 
She  come.  I  make  her!  But  how  you  get  away  from  here? 
You  gotta  wait  till  the  war  finish.  And  where  go?  Ger- 
many?" 

"What  for?"  he  had  demanded  with  tremendous  astonish- 
ment. 

Esther  looked  at  him  then  with  some  curiosity.  She  had 
all  the  news  from  Constantinople,  and  in  the  fight  of  that 
news  it  seemed  incredible  to  her  that  any  one  should  doubt  the 
triumph  of  the  Central  Powers.  There  would  be  nowhere 
else  to  go,  in  her  opinion,  unless  one  fled  to  America. 

"Home,  of  course,"  he  had  said,  and  of  a  sudden  had 
experienced  an  almost  physical  sickness  of  longing  for  the 
humid  foggy  land  in  the  Northern  Sea,  the  land  of  dark 
green  headlands  showing  chalk-white  below,  of  hedges  fike 
thick  black  ropes  on  the  landscape,  with  sunken  roads  be- 
tween, of  little  towns  of  gray  and  black  stone  with  the  dark 
red  roofs  and  stumpy  spires  against  the  sky  of  clouds  like 
heaps  of  comfortable  cushions.  He  had  been  amazed  at  her 
cool  suggestion  that  they  go  to  Germany,  and  she  had  been 
amazed  at  him.  For  she  had  all  the  news  from  Constanti- 
nople, news  that  told  her  that  the  British  fleets  were  at  the 
bottom  of  the  sea,  that  the  millions  in  England  were  starving, 
the  King  fled  to  America,  and  that  the  great  Kaiser  in  his  pal- 
ace in  Berlin  was  setting  out  on  his  triumphal  march  to  London 
to  be  crowned  Czar  of  Europe.  And  why  then  should  he  not 
go  to  Germany?  That  was  what  she  would  do.  She  looked 
at  him  curiously  as  he  said  "Home!"  not  understanding,  of 
course,  the  meaning  of  the  word.  She  had  a  house,  but  the 
subtle  implications  of  the  word  home,  the  word  saturated 
with  a  thousand  years  of  local  traditions  and  sympathies,  the 


296  COMMAND 

word  that  is  the  invisible  centre  of  our  world,  she  did  not 
comprehend.  For  her,  patriotism  was  a  dim  and  unfamiliar 
jjerplexity.  She  had  no  abstract  ideas  at  all.  She  could  not 
read  very  well.  She  personified  the  things  in  her  heart.  To 
her  they  were  men  as  real  as  her  husband  and  Mr.  Spokesly 
himself.  Husband,  house,  money,  sun,  moon,  sea,  and  earth 
— on  these  concrete  manifestations  of  existence  she  based  an 
uncurious  philosophy.  And  it  must  be  understood  that  love 
was  very  much  the  same.  Esther  had  none  of  Evanthia's 
untutored  theatricaUty.  She  never  saw  herself  as  the  Queen 
of  Sheba  or  the  mistress  of  a  King.  She  had  had  a  pretty 
hard  life  of  it  in  Odessa  as  a  child,  and  when  she  was  fifteen 
she  began  to  divide  men  into  two  main  classes,  the  generous 
and  the  stingy.  It  never  entered  her  head  she  could  live 
without  being  dependent  upon  men.  And  then  she  made  a 
fresh  discovery,  that  generous  men  were  often  foolish  and 
spent  their  money  on  women  who  were  monsters  of  infidelity. 
Esther  was  faithful.  Even  when  she  was  left  with  a  baby 
and  no  money,  when  she  was  under  no  obligation  to  treat  men 
with  consideration,  she  remained  one  of  those  who  keep  their 
word  out  of  an  allegiance  to  some  obscure  instinct  for  probity. 
And  now  she  was  married  to  her  Armenian,  a  serious  creature 
with  vague  longings  after  Western  ideas  or  what  he  imagined 
were  Western  ideas.  She  was  conscious  of  both  love  and 
happiness  as  tangible  facets  of  her  existence.  She  had  hold 
of  them,  and  in  her  strong  capable  hands  she  turned  them  to 
good  account.  She  liked  Evanthia  because  she  had  that 
ineluctable  quality  of  transfiguring  an  act  into  a  grandiose 
gesture.  When  Esther's  little  boy  came  on  Sunday  to  visit 
his  mother,  it  was  Evanthia  who  swooped  upon  him,  crushed 
him  to  her  bosom  with  an  exquisitely  dramatic  gesture  of 
motherhood,  stroked  his  sleek  dark  head  and  smooth  little 
face,  and  forgot  all  about  him  an  hour  later.  Esther  never 
did  that.  When  she  looked  at  her  son  she  seemed  to  see 
through  the  past  into  the  future.  Her  kind  capable  face 
was  grave  and  abstracted  as  she  watched  him.  She  seemed  to 
be  apprehensive  of  their  security.  Her  husband  did  not  dis- 
like the  child.     But  if  they  could  only  get  to  Buenos  Aires! 


COMMAND  297 

She  came  with  them  now  and  soon  they  were  in  the  water 
racing  to  the  end  of  the  jetty  and  diving  into  the  flickering 
green  transparency  towards  the  white  sand  bottom.  He 
watched  the  two  of  them  sometimes,  while  he  sat  on  the  jetty 
and  they  tried  to  pull  each  other  under,  noting  the  differences 
of  their  characters  and  bodies.  Esther  was  something 
beyond  his  past  experience.  She  had  the  sturdy  muscular 
form  of  a  strong  youth  and  the  husky  voice  of  a  man.  As  she 
climbed  up  towards  him,  the  water  glistening  on  the  smooth 
sinewy  arms  and  legs,  and  as  she  shook  the  drops  from  her 
eyes  with  a  boyish  energy  and  seating  herself  beside  him 
accepted  a  cigarette,  he  was  conscious  of  that  delicious 
sensuous  emotion  with  which  a  man  regards  the  friend  of  his 
beloved  without  invalidating  for  a  moment  his  own  authentic 
fidelity.  His  love  for  one  woman  reveals  to  him  the  essential 
beauty  of  all  women.  And  it  was  characteristic  of  Evanthia 
to  swim  back  to  the  bath-house  steps  and  go  in  to  dress, 
leaving  them  there  to  talk  for  a  moment. 

"Say,  Esther,  where  does  your  husband  go  every  night? 
Why  don't  he  come  home  and  eat  early  .^" 

"He  go  to  some  club,"  she  said,  blowing  a  jet  of  smoke 
upwards.  "He  very  fond  of  his  club.  He  read  plenty 
book,  my  'usban'." 

"What  sort  of  books?" 

"I  don*  know.  Politics,  Science,  Philosophy.  You  go 
to  that  club,  too.  Your  friend  the  Enghshman,  him  with 
Armenian  wife,  he  go  there." 

"I  know  he  does.  I  was  thinkin' about  it.  But  it's  a  long 
way  out  here  at  night." 

Esther  laughed,  a  low  husky  chuckle,  as  she  rose,  flung 
away  the  cigarette  and  ran  back  to  the  bath  house. 

"  Oh-ho !  You  love  Evanthia  too  much !"  she  flung  over  her 
firm  vigorous  shoulder. 

He  knew  by  now  that  she  meant  "very  much";  and  as  he 
followed  her  he  agreed  she  was  right.  He  had  reached  that 
stage  when  the  past  and  the  future  were  both  obliterated  by 
the  intense  vitality  of  existence.  Only  the  never-ending 
desire  to  get  her  away  into  his  own  environment,  to  see  her 


298  COMMAND 

against  a  familiar  background,  held  him  to  the  plan  he  had 
worked  out  to  get  away.  And  it  was  the  source  of  much  of 
his  irony  in  later,  more  prosperous  years  that  he  had  come  to 
see  how  essentially  egotism  and  male  vanity  that  never- 
ending  desire  happened  to  be.  He  saw  the  sharp  cleavage,  as 
one  sees  a  fault  in  a  range  of  cliffs  at  a  distance,  between  his 
love  and  his  pride.  He  saw  that  the  fear  in  his  heart  was 
for  himself  all  the  time,  lest  he  should  not  come  out  of  the 
adventure  with  his  pride  entire. 

But  that  evening  he  was  absorbed  in  his  emotions,  satu- 
rated with  the  rich  and  coloured  shadows  of  the  valley,  the 
tremendous  loom  of  the  mountains  and  the  vast  obscurity  of 
the  sea.  And  as  they  crossed  the  road  he  put  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder  while  Esther  moved  on  ahead  in  the  dusk  to  prepare 
the  evening  meal.  And  they  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  road, 
facing  the  huge  lift  of  the  earth  towards  the  great  golden  stars, 
silent  in  the  oncoming  darkness.  They  heard  the  deep  boom- 
ing bark  of  a  watch-dog  far  up  the  valley,  a  sound  hke  the 
clang  of  metal  plates  on  earthen  floors.  She  looked  at  him 
with  a  characteristic  quick  turn  of  the  head,  her  body  poised 
as  though  for  flight. 

"Promise  you  will  come,"  he  said  thickly,  holding  to  her 
tightly  as  though  she  were  the  stronger.  "  Can't  you  under- 
stand? I  must  go,  and  I  can't  go  without  you,  leave  you  here. 
Promise!" 

She  watched  him  steadily  as  he  said  this,  her  eyes  bright  in 
the  dusk  and  charged  with  that  enigmatic  expression  of  wait- 
ing and  of  knowledge  beyond  his  imagining.  It  almost  took 
her  breath  away  at  times,  this  consciousness  of  events  of 
which  he  knew  nothing.  He  wanted  her  to  go  with  him  to 
that  terrible  distant  land  where  already  the  multitudes, 
starved  out  by  the  victorious  Germans,  were  devouring  their 
own  children,  even  carrying  their  dead  back  in  ships.  .  .  . 
And  he  did  not  know. 

"  Promise ! "  he  muttered,  straining  her  to  him.  She  looked 
up  the  dim  dusty  road,  along  which  weary  hearts  had  wan- 
dered for  so  many  centuries,  and  a  sudden  wave  of  pity  for 
him  swept  over  her.     She  saw  him  for  a  moment  as  a  pathetic 


COMMAND  299 

and  solitary  being  trembling  upon  the  brink  of  a  tragic 
destiny,  a  being  who  had  come  up  out  of  the  sea  to  do  her 
bidding  and  who  would  sail  out  again  into  the  chaos  of  tem- 
pests and  war,  and  vanish.  And  it  was  her  sudden  perception 
of  this  dramatic  quahty  in  their  relations  that  brought  about 
the  brief  passionate  tenderness.  It  was  her  way,  to  give  men 
at  the  very  last  a  perfect  memory  of  her,  to  carry  away  with 
them  into  the  shadows. 

'*Yes,"  she  said  gently,  and  her  strong  and  vigorous  body 
relaxed  against  his  as  he  held  her  close.  "How  could  you 
leave  me  here,  alone?    Mon  Dieu  !    We  will  go!" 

And  for  a  moment  she  meant  it.  She  meant  to  go.  She 
saw  herself,  not  in  England  it  is  true,  but  as  the  central  figure 
in  a  gorgeous  pageant  of  fidelity,  a  tragic  queen  following  a 
beggar  man  into  captivity  in  a  strange  land  of  her  own  bizarre 
imagining.  They  stood  in  the  road  for  a  while,  he  staring  at 
the  stars  rising  over  the  dark  summits  and  she  looking  up  the 
road  into  the  dusk  at  a  mysterious  drama  playing  away  in  the 
brightness  of  the  future.  And  then  the  moment  was  past, 
and  neither  of  them  comprehended  just  then  how  far  their 
thoughts  had  gone  asunder. 

And  she  was  sincere  in  that  exclamation,  when  she  asked 
how  he  could  leave  her  there  alone?  For  she  was  alone.  The 
young  Jew  trotted  to  and  from  the  town  bearing  fragments  of 
news,  like  a  faithful  dog  carrying  things  in  his  mouth,  but 
he  had  given  her  nothing  as  yet  that  constituted  certainty. 
She  trembled  within  the  circle  of  the  arm  that  held  her  as 
she  suddenly  saw  herself — alone.  She  must  keep  him  there 
yet  a  little  longer.  And  as  they  climbed  up  the  gully  and 
reached  the  iron  gate  in  the  garden  wall,  the  tears  started  to 
her  eyes.  He  saw  them  in  the  light  of  the  lamp  in  the  kitchen 
and  kissed  her  with  a  fresh  access  of  emotion.  He  did  not 
imagine  the  cause  of  them.  She  stared  at  him  through  their 
brightness  and  smiled,  her  bosom  heaving.  She  knew  he 
would  never  never  realize  they  were  tears  of  anger,  and  were 
evoked  by  the  perception  of  the  helplessness  of  women  in  a 
world  of  predatory  men. 

But  above  and  beyond  this  terrible  abstract  indignation 


300  COMMAND 

she  found  herself  regarding  him  at  intervals  with  smouldering 
eyes  because  of  a  certain  subtle  complacency  in  his  manner. 
She  could  not  know  that  this  was  the  habit  of  years,  or  that 
men  of  his  race  are  invariably  complacent  in  the  presence  of 
their  women.  She  could  not  conceive  him  in  any  r61e  in 
which  he  had  the  right  to  be  complacent.  Yet  he  combined 
it  with  a  tender  humility  that  was  very  sweet  to  her  in  her 
situation  out  there  on  the  hillside,  playing  for  a  hazardous 
stake.  It  was  then  she  would  look  at  him  in  stupefaction, 
wondering  if  she  were  going  mad,  and  she  afterwards  would 
take  the  young  Jew  by  the  hair,  dragging  his  head  this  way 
and  that,  and  mutter  between  her  clenched  teeth:  ''Mon 
Dieu  I  Je  deteste  les  hommes  I "  And  he,  poor  youth,  would 
assume  an  expression  of  pallid  horror,  for  he  had  no  idea  what 
she  was  talking  about,  and  imagined  he  had  failed  to  carry 
out  some  of  her  imperious  commands. 

"Oh,  Madama,  what  has  thy  servant  done  to  deserve  this?  " 
he  would  whimper,  less  certain  than  ever  of  the  solidity  of  his 
fortunes.  And  she  would  look  at  him,  her  hand  dropping  to 
her  side  as  she  gave  a  little  laugh. 

"Did  I  hurt  you?"  she  would  chuckle,  and  he  would  ex- 
plain that  she  had  not. 

"But  when  Madama  speaks  in  that  strange  tongue  her 
servant  is  afraid  he  has  not  done  his  errand  in  the  town  as  she 
desires." 

"Tck!     Go  every  day.     You  will  find  him  soon." 

"K  Madama  gave  me  a  letter     .     .     ." 

"And  some  great  fool  of  an  Osmanli  soldier  would  go 
through  thy  pockets,  and  lock  thee  up  in  the  jail  on  Mount 
Pagos  with  all  the  other  Jews.  And  who  would  write  the 
letter?    You?     Can  you  write?" 

"Very  little,  Madama,"  he  muttered,  trembling. 

"And  I  cannot  write  at  all,  though  I  don't  tell  anybody. 
I  could  never  learn.  I  read,  yes;  the  large  words  in  the 
cinemas;  but  not  letters.  Let  us  forget  that.  You  have  the 
picture?" 

"Ah,  Madama,  it  is  next  my  heart!" 

He  would  bring  it  out,  unfolding  a  fragment  of  paper,  and 


COMMAND  301 

show  her  a  photograph  about  as  large  as  a  stamp,  and  she 
would  glower  at  it  for  a  moment. 

'*You  are  sure  he  is  not  at  the  Hotel  Kraemer?" 

"Madama,  one  of  the  maids  there  is  of  my  own  people, 
the  Eskenazi,  and  she  has  assured  me  there  is  no  one  like  the 
picture  there.  But  the  general  will  arrive  in  a  day  or  two. 
Perhaps  he  is  a  general,  Madama?"  he  hinted. 

''He?  Not  even  a  little  one!  Ha — ha!"  she  chuckled 
again.  "The  dear  fool!  But  hear  me.  He  may  be  with  the 
general.  He  may  be  what  they  call  an  aide.  He  may  .  .  ." 
She  broke  off,  staring  hard  at  the  youth,  suddenly  remember- 
ing that  he  might  not  come  at  all.  "Go!"  she  ordered  ab- 
sently, "find  him  and  thy  fortune  is  made." 

But  the  idea  of  a  letter  was  attractively  novel  to  her,  and 
she  immediately  saw  herself  inspiring  the  dear  fool  with  some 
of  her  own  grandiose  ideas.  She  even  thought  of  sounding 
Esther  upon  the  likelihood  of  her  husband  writing  a  letter. 
She  stood  by  the  window  looking  down  into  the  garden  where 
Mr.  Spokesly  sat  smoking  and  gazing  at  the  blue  bowl  of  the 
gulf  and  the  distant  gray-green  olive  groves  beyond  the  city. 
She  was  deliberating  upon  the  significance  of  her  courier's 
latest  breathless  news  from  the  kitchen  of  the  Hotel  Kraemer. 
The  general  was  arriving  from  the  south.  He  and  his  staff 
had  been  as  far  as  Jerusalem  after  the  great  victory  over  the 
British  and  were  due  to-morrow  in  the  city  on  their  way  back 
to  Constantinople.  Evanthia's  courage  had  suffered  from 
the  contradictory  nature  of  her  earlier  news.  It  was  part  of 
her  life  to  sift  and  analyze  the  words  that  ran  through  city 
and  country  from  mouth  to  mouth.  She  had  never  had  any 
real  confidence  in  any  other  form  of  information.  If  she 
hired  any  one  to  write  a  letter,  her  words  vanished  into 
incomprehensible  hieroglyphics  and  she  had  no  guarantee  the 
man  did  not  lie.  And  when  Amos  had  told  her  on  the  ship 
what  he  had  heard  in  the  Rue  Voulgaroktono  that  they  had 
reached  Aidin,  she  had  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  Liether- 
thal  was  with  a  party  on  their  way  from  Constantinople  to 
Smyrna.  And  now  her  quick  brain  saw  the  reason  why  they 
had  not  arrived  before.     He  had  joined  the  staff  of  the 


802  COMMAND 

general  and  had  gone  away  south,  through  Kara-hissar,  to 
Adana  and  Aleppo  to  Damascus.  And  now  they  were  on 
their  way  back.  She  looked  down  into  the  garden,  where 
Mr.  Spokesly,  quietly  smoking,  was  reflecting  upon  the 
mystery  of  a  woman's  desires.  Here,  after  all,  she  had  for- 
gotten all  about  that  other  fellow,  who  was  probably  having 
a  good  time  in  Athens  and  who  had  no  doubt  forgotten  about 
her.  And  she  was  alone  here,  utterly  dependent  upon  him, 
who  had  made  his  plans  for  taking  her  away  to  a  civilized 
country,  where  he  could  make  her  happy.  He  smiled  with 
profound  satisfaction  as  he  thought  of  himself  with  her  beside 
him,  in  London.  How  her  beauty  would  flash  like  a  barbaric 
jewel  in  that  gray  old  city!  He  remembered  the  money  she 
had  stowed  away,  ready  for  the  great  adventure.  He  called 
it  that  in  romantic  moments,  yet  what  was  more  easy  than 
nmning  out  after  dark,  with  nothing  fast  enough  to  catch 
him?  Especially  as  he  heard  that  there  would  be  a  review 
in  a  day  or  so  when  everyone  would  be  on  their  toes  to  see  the 
general.  He  thought  of  the  money  because  even  in  his 
romantic  moments  there  was  enough  to  live  on  for  a  year 
"while  he  looked  round."  No  more  second-mate's  jobs,  he 
muttered.  He  would  pick  and  choose.  He  rose  and  stretched 
luxuriously,  noting  the  calm  glitter  of  the  city's  lights  like  a 
necklace  on  the  bosom  of  the  mountain.  He  would  have  to 
spend  an  evening  with  that  chap  Marsh.  Very  decent  fellow. 
Had  pressed  him  more  than  once  to  join  them  at  Costi's  in  the 
Rue  Parallel.  He  was  satisfied  apparently,  married  to  his 
Armenian  wife  and  teaching  music  and  languages  to  earn  a 
living  for  a  large  family.  Mr.  Spokesly  recalled  a  remark 
made  by  Mr.  Marsh  one  day  at  the  Sports  Club:  "Oh! 
Don't  misunderstand  me!  For  myself,  as  regards  the  war, 
you  know,  I  am  a  philosopher.  What  can  we  do?  Ask  any 
fair-minded  person  at  home,  what  could  they  do,  in  our 
position?  There's  only  one  answer — make  the  best  of  it. 
Don't  misunderstand  us." 

And  he  had  ventured  a  remark  that  possibly  they,  and  the 
fair-minded  person  at  home,  might  misunderstand  him,  com- 
ing into  an  enemy  port  like  that. 


COMMAND  303 

**  Oh,  no ! "  Mr.  Marsh  was  untroubled  by  that.  "  You  were 
Hke  us,  as  far  as  I  can  make  out.  Had  to  make  the  best  of  it. 
Now  your  captain     .     .     ." 

There  was  a  fascination  about  the  captain  for  Mr.  Marsh. 
For  twenty  years  he  had  hved  in  a  sort  of  middle-class  and 
inconspicuous  exile,  and  destined,  as  far  as  he  could  discover, 
to  remain  for  ever  in  the  dry  and  unromantic  regions  of  a 
middle-class  existence.  Nothing,  he  was  often  fond  of  saying 
to  his  friends,  ever  happened  to  him.  The  things  one  reads 
of  in  books!  he  would  exclaim,  with  a  short  grunting  laugh 
of  humorous  regret.  Stories  of  fair  Circassians,  Balkan 
countesses,  Turkish  beauties,  Armenian  damsels.  .  .  ! 
Where  were  they?  He  had  married  and  settled  down  here, 
and  remained  twenty  years  in  all,  and  yet  nothing  had 
happened.  Yes,  on  the  alert  for  twenty  years  to  detect  ro- 
mantic developments — ^he  had  a  daughter  sixteen  years  old — 
and  until  that  ship  came  in,  not  a  chance!  So  he  described 
it  to  his  friends  at  Costi's  and  at  the  Austrian  Consulate,  an 
immense  villa  in  a  charming  garden  farther  along  in  the  Rue 
Parallel. 

For  somehow  the  arrival  of  that  ship  was  a  significant  event 
in  more  than  the  accepted  sense.  It  was  reserved  for  Mr. 
Marsh  to  perceive  the  full  romantic  aspect  of  the  adventure. 
For  others  it  was  a  nine-day  wonder,  an  official  nuisance  or 
blessing,  as  suited  the  official  temperament  to  regard  it.  To 
Mr.  Spokesly  it  was  an  exciting  but  secondary  factor  leading 
up  to  the  greater  adventure  of  departure.  It  was  over- 
shadowed by  the  more  perplexing  problem  of  explaining  him- 
self in  a  masterless  vessel. 

But  Mr.  Marsh,  after  twenty  years,  during  which  he  had 
failed  to  detect  anything  resembling  romance  in  his  life, 
when  he  was  called  out  of  his  bed  at  dawn  that  morning  to  go 
off  as  interpreter,  saw  the  matter  in  a  very  different  light. 
Indeed  he  saw  it  in  the  light  of  romance.  His  first  comment 
when  he  found  time  to  review  his  experiences  was:  "By  Jove, 
you  can't  beat  that  type!  We  shall  always  rule,  always!" 
and  his  bosom  swelled  at  the  thought  of  England.  But  it  was 
his  discovery  of  Captain  Rannie  which  remained  with  him 


804  COMMAND 

as  the  great  scene  in  the  play.  He  could  not  get  it  out  of  his 
mind.  He  told  everybody  about  it.  He  revealed  a  doubt 
whether  other  people  fully  appreciated  the  extraordinary 
experience  which  had  been  his  when  he  went  down  that  dark 
curving  stairway,  "not  having  the  faintest  notion,  you  know, 
whether  I  wouldn't  get  knocked  on  the  head  or  perhaps  blown 
to  bits,"  and  found  the  door  resisting  his  efforts.  An  active 
intelligent  resistance!  he  declared,  precisely  as  though  the 
man  were  trying  to  keep  him  out.  And  as  time  passed  and 
the  story  developed  in  his  own  mind  by  the  simple  process  of 
continually  repeating  and  brooding  upon  it,  as  an  actor's  part 
becomes  clearer  to  him  by  rendition,  Mr.  Marsh  developed 
the  theory  that  when  he  first  went  down  those  stairs  and 
tried  to  get  in,  the  resistance  was  in  truth  intelligent  and 
aUve. 

He  was  explaining  this  new  and  intriguing  "theory,"  as 
he  called  it,  on  the  following  evening  when  Mr.  Spokesly 
accompanied  by  the  husband  of  Esther,  who  was  "in  the 
Public  Debt,"  entered  the  great  room  on  the  second  floor  of 
the  Consulate,  a  magnificent  chamber  whose  windows  opened 
upon  balconies  and  revealed,  above  the  opposite  roofs, 
rectangles  of  luminous  twilight.  Some  half-dozen  gentlemen 
were  seated  on  chairs  in  the  dusk  about  one  of  the  balconies. 
As  the  newcomers  arrived  by  a  side  door  a  servant  came  in 
through  the  enormous  curtains  at  the  far  end  bearing  a  couple 
of  many-branched  candlesticks  and  advanced  towards  a 
table,  thus  revealing  in  some  degree  the  elaborate  design  and 
shabby  neglect  of  the  place.  Huge  divans  in  scarlet  satin 
were  ripped  and  battered,  the  gilding  of  the  sconces  was 
tarnished  and  blackened,  and  the  parquetry  flooring,  of 
intricate  design,  was  warped  and  loose  under  the  advanc- 
ing foot.  And  above  their  heads,  like  shadowy  wraiths, 
hung  immense  candelabra  whose  lustres  glittered  mys- 
teriously in  the  candlelight  under  their  coverings  of  dusty 
muslin. 

Mr.  Marsh  was  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  balcony  railing 
and  facing  his  audience  as  he  explained  his  conviction  that 
the  captain  had  intended  to  keep  him  out. 


COMMAND  305 

"I  assure  you,"  he  was  saying,  and  apparently  he  was 
directing  his  remarks  at  someone  who  now  heard  the  tale 
for  the  first  time;  "I  assure  you,  when  I  pushed  the  door  and 
saw  the  man's  shoulder,  it  moved.  I  mean  it  actually  quiv- 
ered, apart  from  my  movement  of  the  door.  It  gave  me  a 
very  pecuhar  sensation,  because  when  I  spoke,  there  was  no 
answer.  Only  a  quiver.  And  another  thing.  When  I 
finally  did  shove  the  door  open  and  so  shoved  the  captain 
over,  the  noise  was  not  the  noise  of  a  dead  inert  body,  if  you 
understand  me.  Not  at  all.  It  sounded  as  though  he  had 
broken  his  fall  somewhat!   I  can  assure  you " 

Mr.  Marsh  had  enjoyed  an  excellent  education  in  England. 
He  had  the  average  Englishman's  faculty  of  expressing  him- 
self in  excellent  commonplaces  so  that  every  other  English- 
man knew  exactly  what  he  meant.  But  his  hearers  on  this 
occasion  were  not  all  Englishmen,  and  suddenly  out  of  the 
dusk  of  the  corner  came  a  voice  speaking  English  but  not  of 
England  at  all.  Mr.  Spokesly,  standing  a  short  distance  off, 
was  startled  at  the  full-throated  brazen  clang  of  it  booming 
through  the  obscurity  of  the  vast  chamber.  It  was  a  voice 
eloquent  of  youth  and  impudent  virile  good-humour,  a  voice 
with  a  strange  harsh  under-twang  which  the  speaker's  ances- 
tors had  brought  out  of  central  Asia,  where  they  had  bawled 
barbaric  war-  songs  across  the  frozen  spaces. 

"Broke  his  what?  I  don't  understand  what  you  mean," 
said  the  voice,  and  a  fair-haired  young  man  in  a  gray  uniform, 
a  short,  thick  golden  moustache  on  his  lip,  came  up  suddenly 
out  of  the  gloom  into  the  radiance  of  the  candles  and  began 
to  stride  to  and  fro.  The  interruption  was  trivial,  yet  it  gave 
the  key  to  the  young  man's  character,  courageous,  cultured, 
precise,  and  impatient  of  inferior  minds. 

"His  fall,"  explained  Mr.  Marsh  poHtely.  "The  point  is, 
I  believe  he  was  alive  almost  up  to  the  moment,  you  know, 
of  our  entry.  He  even  moved  slightly  as  I  stepped  in — a 
sort  of  last  gasp.  I  even  heard  something  of  that  nature. 
A  sigh.     Good  evening,  gentlemen." 

The  last  words  were  addressed  to  Mr.  Spokesly  and  his 
friend  in  the  Public  Debt,  who  crossed  the  path  of  the  young 


COMMAND 

man  striding  up  and  down  and  were  introduced  to  the  com- 
pany. 

"You  can  corroborate  what  I  say/*  said  Mr.  Marsh. 
"You  know  I  mentioned  it  at  the  time — a  sort  of  sigh.^" 

"What  is  a  sigh,  or  a  moment,  for  that  matter,  more  or 
less.'^"  demanded  the  young  man  striding  up  and  down. 
"To  me  there  is  something  much  more  important  in  his 
motive.  Why  did  this  captain  of  yours  end  himself.^  This 
is  a  question  important  to  science.  I  am  a  student  of  Lom- 
broso  and  MoUe  and  the  EngHshman  EUis.  Was  this  man 
epileptic?    Did  he  have  delusions  of  grandeur.?" 

"This  gentleman,"  said  Mr.  Marsh,  "was  the  officer  on 
deck  at  the  time,"  and  he  looked  at  Mr.  Spokesly  anxiously, 
as  though  waiting  fresh  details  of  the  affair. 

"Yes,  he  had  delusions,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  clearing  his 
throat.  "Thought  everybody  was  against  him.  He  took 
drugs  too.  My  own  idea  is  he  took  the  wrong  stuff  or  too 
much  of  it,  in  his  excitement.  He  was  down  there  in  his 
room  when  we  crashed.  And  he  had  another — delusion  I 
suppose  you  could  call  it.     He  didn't  like  women." 

"Didn't  like  .  .  .  Well,  who  does?"  challenged  the 
vigorous  metallic  voice  with  a  carefully  modified  yet  reso- 
nant laugh.  One  or  two  laughs,  equally  modified,  floated 
from  obscure  corners  where  cigar-ends  glowed,  and  the 
animated  figure  paused  in  its  rapid  movement.  "I  mean,  no 
man  likes  women  as  they  are  unless  he  is  a  true  sensualist. 
What  we  aspire  to  is  the  ideal  they  represent.  Your  cap- 
tain must  have  been  a  sensualist." 

"Because  his  last  breath  was  a  sigh,  you  mean?"  said  Mr. 
Marsh.     "I  heard  it  you  know.     A  long-drawn  gasp." 

"Precisely.  The  sigh  of  a  sensualist  leaving  the  world  of 
the  senses." 

Mr.  Spokesly  stared  at  Mr.  Marsh  incredulously. 

"I  don't  think  you  are  *right,'"  he  remarked,  lighting  a 
fresh  cigarette.  "The  captain  was  not  that  sort  of  man. 
He  was  timid,  I  admit.     He  was  scared  of  losing  his  life." 

"Who  isn't?"  demanded  the  young  man  and  was  beginning 
another  resonant  laugh  when  Mr.  Spokesly  broke  in. 


COMMAND  307 

"A  good  many  people,"  he  said  sharply,  "under  the  right 
conditions.  Nobody  wants  to  get  killed,  we  know.  But 
that  does  not  mean  they  wouldn't  take  a  risk." 

"Well,  didn't  your  captain  take  the  risk?"  said  Mr.  Marsh 
eagerly.     "That  was  just  what     .     .     ." 

"He  did  but  he  always  wore  one  of  these  inflating  things," 
said  Mr.  Spokesly  quietly.  "Vests  you  blow  up  when  you 
want  them.  We  had  a  collision,  as  you  know,  and  he  had  it 
on  then.  And  when  he  heard  us  crash  I've  no  doubt  he  began 
to  inflate  it  again." 

"Then  there  is  no  use  supposing  he  committed  suicide," 
said  a  voice.     "That  would  be  absurd." 

"Not  altogether,"  replied  Mr.  Spokesly.  "I  don't  know 
whether  you  gentlemen  will  think  I  am  a  bit  mad  for  saying 
it,  but  after  knowing  him,  it's  quite  possible  he  took  some- 
thing to  kill  himself  and  then  tried  to  save  himself  from  being 
drowned.  There's  a  lot  of  difference  between  being  dragged 
under  in  a  sinking  ship,  and  gradually  getting  sleepy  and  stiff 
in  comfort,  and  don't  you  forget  it.     Humph!" 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  moment  when  he  ceased  speaking, 
as  though  he  had  propounded  some  new  and  incontrovertible 
doctrine  of  philosophy.  The  young  man  who  was  walking 
up  and  down,  almost  vanishing  in  the  gloom  down  near  the 
great  smoke-coloured  velvet  curtains,  halted  and  looked  in- 
terrogatively at  Mr.  Spokesly. 

"But  you  have  not  explained  why  he  should  kill  himself 
at  all,"  he  said.  "A  man  as  you  say  scared  of  losing  his 
life." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly  slowly.  "He  may  have  seen 
himself.  ...  I  mean  he  may  have  realized  he  had  lost 
his  life  already,  as  you  might  say." 

"How,  how?"  demanded  the  young  man,  very  much 
interested.     "What  do  you  mean  by  already?" 

"You  might  call  it  that,"  muttered  Mr.  Spokesly,  "with 
his  ideas  about  women.  Couldn't  bear  to  talk  about  them. 
And  he  didn't  like  men  much  better.  So  I  say  he'd  lost  his 
life  already.  Nothing  to  live  for,  if  a  man  hates  women. 
And  he  did.     That's  one  thing  I  am  sure  about." 


308  COMMAND 

"You  are  a  psychologist/'  said  the  young  man,  very  much 
amused.     "You  beHeve  in  the  inspiration  of  love." 

"Naturally,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly.  "A  man  believes  in 
what  he  understands." 

The  young  man  nodded  and  turned  away  with  the  slight 
smile  of  one  who  realizes  he  is  dealing  with  a  person  of  limited 
intelligence. 

"You  mean  we  believe  in  what  we  have  cognition  of,"  he 
amended  in  a  harsh  tone.  "No  doubt  you  are  right.  But 
your  captain  may  have  had  beliefs  and  fidelities  beyond  your 
cognition.  Perhaps  he  saw,  suddenly,  as  in  a  flash,  you 
understand,  the  ultimate  futility  of  existence.  He  might. 
Englishmen  don't  as  a  rule.  But  if  he  had  lived  in  the  East  a 
long  while,  he  might." 

"But  surely  you  don't  advance  that  as  a  tenable  hypothe- 
sis," exclaimed  Mr.  Marsh.  This  man,  who  had  contrived 
to  retain  the  illusions  and  metaphysics  of  the  comfortably 
fixed  classes  of  England  amid  the  magnificent  scenery  and 
human  squalor  of  Ottoman  life,  was  frankly  appalled  by  the 
young  man's  ferocious  gaiety  while  he  advanced  what  he 
called  his  theory  of  philosophic  nihilism.  That  was  the 
disconcerting  feature  of  the  affair.  This  Herr  Leutnant 
Lietherthal  actually  spoke  with  pleasure  of  a  time  when 
humanity  should  have  ceased  to  exist!  Mr.  Marsh  would 
almost  have  preferred  a  technical  enemy  to  desire  the  ex- 
tinction of  Englishmen.  It  was  more  logical,  and  he  said  as 
much  as  they  adjourned  to  a  smaller  room  to  supper. 

"Oh,  don't  I?"  exclaimed  the  Herr  Leutnant,  holding  up 
his  glass  of  Ktimmel.  That  was  his  way  of  being  revenged 
upon  the  country  where  he  had  lived  many  happy  years. 
At  Oxford,  whither  the  munificence  of  Rhodes  brought  him, 
his  sensuous  mind  had  delighted  in  the  apparently  opposed 
but  really  identical  studies  of  philosophy  and  philology. 
Following  the  example  of  his  tutor  at  Leipzig,  he  had  often 
neglected  classrooms  in  his  studies  in  English,  and  gone  into 
the  slums  of  great  towns  and  on  the  dock-sides  of  London  and 
Liverpool  for  idioms.  And  he  got  them.  "Oh,  don't  I?" 
he  exclaimed,  laughing,  and  added:  "I  go  the  whole  hog,  my 


COMMAND  309 

friend."  And  only  that  subtle  under-twang,  that  strong 
humming  of  the  vocal  chords  in  his  vowels  remained  to  detect 
him.  He  was  addicted  to  saying  that  he  had  discovered  the 
secret  of  the  English  power,  which  was,  he  announced,  their 
mongrel  origin.  '*  A  nation  of  mongrels  who  think  of  nothing 
but  thoroughbred  horses  and  dogs,"  he  had  described  them 
to  Evanthia,  who  could  not  possibly  gauge  the  accuracy  of 
the  sentence.  Just  now,  as  he  set  down  his  glass,  he  added 
that  he  went  "the  whole  hog,  my  friend,  as  your  graceful 
EngHsh  expresses  it."  And  then,  in  reply  to  Mr.  Marsh's 
shocked  comment,  he  said: 

"Why?  It  would  be  of  no  advantage  to  desire  the  ex- 
tinction of  any  white  race.  This  affair  is  only  a  family 
squabble.  But  it  is  a  symptom.  You  may  be  watching 
now  the  first  convulsions  of  the  disease  by  which  Europe  will 
die.  Europe  is  dying.  The  war,  the  war  is  only  a  superficial 
disturbance.  The  trouble  is  deeper  than  the  mud  of  Flan- 
ders, my  friend.  Europe  is  dying  because  her  inspiration,  her 
ideals,  are  gone.  That  is  what  I  mean  when  I  say  Europe 
will  die.  The  old  fidelities  are  departing.  And  when  they 
are  all  dead,  and  Europe  is  a  vast  cesspool  of  republicans 
engaged  in  mutual  extermination,  what  will  happen  then,  do 
you  think.?" 

"Why  do  you  talk  that  mad  stuff  here?"  grunted  one  of 
the  guests,  a  quiet  middle-aged  person  with  a  monocle.  He 
spoke  in  German,  and  Lietherthal  answered  quickly: 

"What  difference,  Oscar?    They  don't  believe  me." 

"What  will  happen,  I  ask  you?"  he  continued  in  a  vibrat- 
ing tone.  "When  we  have  destroyed  ourselves,  and  the 
survivors  of  our  civilization  are  creeping  feebly  about  the 
country,  going  back  little  by  little  to  the  agricultural  age, 
the  yellow  men  from  Asia  and  the  blacks  from  Africa  will 
come  pouring  into  Europe.  Millions  of  them.  They  will 
infest  the  skeletons  of  our  civilizations  like  swarms  of  black 
and  yellow  maggots  in  the  sepulchres  of  kings.  And  in  the 
end  humanity  will  cease  to  exist.  Civilization  will  be  dead 
but  there  will  be  nobody  to  bury  her,"  he  concluded,  smiling. 
"  Europe  will  be  full  of  the  odours  of  her  dissolution." 


310  COMMAND 

"I  cannot  believe,"  said  Mr.  Marsh  with  energy,  "that 
any  one  would  seriously  entertain  such  wild  ideas.  They 
imply  the  negation  of  all  the  things  we  hold  dear.  I  should 
commit  suicide  at  once  if  I  thought  for  a  single  moment  such 
an  outcome  was  possible." 

"Perhaps  your  captain  had  such  a  moment,"  suggested 
the  young  man,  busily  eating  fish.  "Perhaps  he  saw,  as  I 
said,  the  futility  of  existence." 

"And  you  really  believe  there  is  no  hope.?" 

"Hope!"  echoed  Lietherthal  with  a  brazen-throated  laugh. 
"Hear  the  Englishman  crying  for  his  hope!  By  what  right 
or  rule  of  logic  can  we  demand  an  inexhaustible  supply  of 
hope,  especially  packed  in  hundredweight  crates  for  export 
to  the  British  Colonies?  Hope!  The  finest  brand  on  the 
market!  Will  not  spoil  in  the  tropics!  Stow  away  from 
boilers!  Use  no  hooks!  That's  all  an  Englishman  thinks  of 
if  you  ask  him  to  consider  a  scientific  question.  Doctor,  is 
there  any  hope?     Hope  for  himself,  not  for  anybody  else." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  laughter  at  this,  a  murmur  in  which 
even  Mr.  Marsh  joined,  for  he  "could  see  a  joke"  as  he  often 
admitted.  And  as  the  meal  progressed  and  the  excellent  red 
wine  passed,  the  young  man  revealed  a  nimble  mind,  hke 
quicksilver  rather  than  firm  polished  metal,  which  ran  easily 
over  the  whole  surface  of  life  and  entertained  them  with  the 
aptness  and  scandalous  candour  of  its  expression.  To  most 
of  them,  men  hke  Esther's  husband,  Mr.  Jokanian,  who  had 
absorbed  European  ideas  through  books,  so  that  they  had 
fermented  within  him  in  a  black  froth  of  pessimism  and 
sociahstic  bubbles,  he  was  a  blond  angel  from  heaven.  "A 
man  of  remarkable  ideas,"  he  observed  to  Mr.  Spokesly,  who 
nodded. 

"Remarkable  is  right,"  he  muttered.  He  found  himself 
withdrawing  instinctively  from  the  highly  charged  intellec- 
tual atmosphere  of  this  community.  As  he  ate  his  supper 
and  drank  the  wine,  he  allowed  his  mind  to  return  to  his  own 
more  immediate  affairs.  It  might  very  well  be  that  civili- 
zation and  even  humanity  would  die  out,  but  the  urgency  of 
the  problem  was  not  apparent  to  a  man  about  to  go  out  on  a 


COMMAND  311 

hazardous  adventure  with  the  woman  he  loved.  Only  that 
day  he  had  worked  with  Mr.  Cassar,  the  engineer,  who  had 
been  making  a  silencer  for  the  motor.  Not  that  Mr.  Spoke- 
sly  was  going  to  depend  upon  that.  He  had  a  mast  and  a 
sail,  for  he  knew  the  wind  was  off  shore  and  easterly  during 
the  night,  and  he  could  save  his  engine  for  the  time  when  they 
had  made  the  outer  arm  of  the  Gulf.  Mr.  Cassar  agreed  be- 
cause he  thought  they  might  be  short  of  gasolene  in  spite  of 
the  carefully  stored  supply.  For  Mr.  Cassar  had  decided 
to  go  with  his  commander.  It  had  been  borne  in  upon  Mr. 
Cassar  that  the  family  in  Cospicua,  for  whom  he  was  indus- 
triously providing,  might  perish  of  starvation  while  he  grew 
rich  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice,  if  he  could  not  send  them 
any  money — ^as  he  obviously  could  not  so  long  as  he  remained 
where  he  was.  Mr.  Cassar  was  not  at  all  clear  as  to  the 
causes  and  extent  of  the  war.  All  he  knew  was  that  he  now 
earned  more  money,  and  he  naturally  hoped  it  would  go  on 
as  long  as  possible.  But  he  also  knew  enough  of  war  to 
realize  the  limits  set  upon  enterprise,  just  as  at  sea  one  had  to 
submit  to  the  ways  of  the  elements.  And  he  had  inherited 
a  placid  contempt  for  everything  Ottoman,  which  minimized 
in  his  mind  the  difficulties  of  departure.  And  it  may  have 
been  also  a  sudden  desire  to  see  his  wife  in  Cospicua.  She 
had  written  him,  in  a  mixture  of  Maltese  and  Itahan,  with 
many  corrections  and  blots,  which  had  caused  the  literary- 
minded  censor  in  Saloniki  much  trouble,  thinking  they  con- 
cealed a  cipher;  and  she  had  implored  him  to  come  back  to 
Valletta  and  get  work  in  the  dockyard.  Then  they  could 
have  a  house  in  Senglea  and  the  children  could  go  to  a  better 
school.  This  was  doubtless  the  underlying  thought  in  Mr. 
Cassar's  mind  when  he  decided  to  go  along  with  Mr.  Spokesly. 
And  Mr.  Spokesly,  before  going  over  to  the  office  of  the  Public 
Debt,  to  find  Mr.  Jokanian,  had  mentioned  that  he  would 
be  going  back  rather  late  to  Bairakli. 

He  sat  now,  the  wine  stimulating  his  mind  to  unwonted 
activity,  listening  to  the  clever  conversation  of  the  blond 
young  man.  Mr.  Spokesly  was  quite  prepared  to  admire 
him.     It  was,  he  reflected,  very  wonderful  how  these  chaps 


312  COMMAND 

learned  languages.  He  wished  he  could  speak  these  lingos. 
Here  they  were,  German,  Austrian,  Armenian,  Jew,  all 
speaking  English.  After  all,  there  lay  the  triumph.  As  Mr. 
Marsh  said,  you  couldn't  beat  that  type.  *'We"  went 
everywhere  and  all  men  adopted  "our"  language  and  "our'* 
ideas.  He  heard  the  Herr  Leutnant's  tones  as  he  told  Mr. 
Marsh  that  he  himself  admired  the  English.  He  had  lived 
among  them  for  years.  At  one  time  was  engaged  to  marry 
an  Engldnderinn.  And  his  conclusion  was  that  they  had 
nothing  to  fear  from  any  other  nation.  Their  true  enemies 
were  within.  The  hitherto  impregnable  solidarity  of  the 
race  was  disintegrating.  Mr.  Spokesly  was  not  clear  what  this 
signified.  He  knew  it  sounded  like  the  stuff  these  clever 
foreigners  were  always  thinking  up.  When  all  was  said  and 
done,  they  were  all  out  to  do  the  best  they  could  for  them- 
selves. There  was  Marsh,  living  as  calm  as  you  please  in 
Ottoman  territory  and  making  a  very  decent  income  in 
various  ways.  And  there  was  a  young  fellow  over  there,  with 
rich  auburn  hair  flung  back  from  a  fine  reddish  forehead,  who 
had  been  pointed  out  to  him  as  the  son  of  a  rich  old  boy  who 
had  been  there  all  his  life  as  a  Turkey  merchant,  with  great 
estates  and  a  grand  house  at  Boudja  where  they  were  to  hold 
a  magnificent  garden  party  to  welcome  the  old  General  on  his 
arrival  from  a  tour  of  inspection  in  Syria.  Mr.  Spokesly  had 
heard,  too,  of  the  way  money  was  made  just  now,  and  he 
smiled  at  the  simplicity  of  it.  There  was  the  material  in  the 
cargo  of  the  Kalhisy  hardware  and  flour  and  gasolene.  A 
pretty  rake-off  some  of  these  intellectual  Europeans  had  made 
out  of  that  in  what  they  called  transportation  charges.  And 
there  was  the  Ottoman  Public  Debt  they  had  taken  up,  pay- 
ing for  it  in  paper  and  getting  the  interest  in  gold.  They 
were  doing  the  best  they  could  under  the  circumstances.  He 
saw  their  point  of  view  well  enough.  He  himself  had  another 
problem.  He  had  to  get  out  of  it.  Mr.  Spokesly,  as  he 
walked  about  that  shining  Levantine  city,  as  he  passed  down 
those  narrow  tortuous  streets  into  bazaars  reeking  with 
the  strange  odours  of  Asiatic  life,  as  he  watched  the  slow 
oblivious  life  of  the  poor,  and  the  sullen  furtiveness  of  the 


COMMAND  313 

Greek  storekeepers  and  shabby  French  bourgeoisie  waiting  in 
Hne  at  the  custom  house  for  a  chance  to  buy  their  morsels  of 
food,  saw  with  penetrating  clarity  how  impossible  it  would 
be  for  him  to  remain,  even  if  he  did  get  a  permanent  harbour- 
master's job.  No!  He  finished  his  glass  of  wine  and  looked 
round  for  the  decanter.  He  saw  that  these  people  here,  for 
all  their  intellectual  superiority,  their  fluent  social  accompUsh- 
ments,  their  familiarity  with  philosophical  compromises, 
were  simply  evading  the  facts.  They  were  variants  of  Mr. 
Jokanian,  who  was  also  reaching  regularly  for  the  decanter, 
and  who  was  attempting  to  forget  a  national  failure  in  high- 
sounding  poppycock  about  the  autocracy  of  the  proletariat. 
Mr.  Marsh  was  proud  of  being  an  Englishman,  in  a  well-bred 
way,  for  he  was  always  insisting  "you  could  not  beat  that 
type";  but  what  was  his  idea  of  an  Englishman? 

A  person  who,  strictly  speaking,  no  longer  existed.  Mr. 
Marsh  was  fortunate  in  having  his  ideals  and  illusions  pre- 
served in  the  dry  air  of  the  Levant  as  in  a  hermetically  sealed 
chamber.  The  type  he  spoke  of  was  being  very  handsomely 
beaten  in  all  directions  and  was  being  rescued  from  utter 
annihilation  by  a  very  different  type — ^the  mechanical  engi- 
neer, who  was  no  doubt  preparing  the  world  for  a  fresh  ad- 
vance upon  its  ultimate  destruction.  Mr.  Spokesly,  in  a 
rich  glow  of  exaltation,  saw  these  vast  and  vague  ideas  parade 
in  his  mind  as  he  listened  abstractedly  to  the  conversation. 
But  as  the  wine  passed,  that  cosmic  quality  passed,  too,  and 
he  began  to  hear  other  things  besides  theories  of  evolution. 
He  heard  someone  remark  that  they  had  a  very  fine  piano, 
a  Bechstein  grand.  Some  consul  had  brought  it  from  Vienna 
for  his  musical  daughter.  But  it  was  impossible  to  take  it 
with  them  when  he  was  transferred  to  Teheran.  Another 
voice  desired  to  know  what  was  done  with  the  musical  daugh- 
ter, and  amid  laughter  they  began  to  push  their  chairs  back, 
lighting  cigarettes  and  lifting  liqueurs  to  carry  them  to 
another  room. 

Looking  down  into  a  courtyard  which  contained,  amid 
much  rank  vegetation,  an  empty  marble  basin  surmounted 
by  a  one-legged  Diana  with  a  broken  bow,  and  a  motor  car 


314  COMMAND 

with  only  three  wheels  and  no  engine,  Mr.  Spokesly  leaned  out 
to  watch  the  moon  setting  over  the  dark  masses  of  the 
neighbouring  roofs.  Behind  him  the  Bechstein  grand  was 
surrounded  by  some  half-dozen  gentlemen  explaining  their 
preferences,  laughing,  whistling  a  few  notes,  and  breaking 
into  polite  cries  of  wonder.  Suddenly  there  was  a  silence, 
and  Mr.  Marsh,  seated  at  the  instrument  and  running  his 
hands  over  the  keys  in  a  highly  versatile  fashion,  began 
"John  Peel"  in  a  high  thin  tenor  that  sounded  as  though  it 
came  from  behind  the  neighbouring  mountain.  Thin  yet 
sweet,  so  that  the  peculiar  sentiment  of  the  song,  dedicated 
"to  that  type"  which  Mr.  Marsh  so  much  admired,  reached 
Mr.  Spokesly  as  he  leaned  out  and  noted  the  sharp,  slender 
black  shapes  of  the  cypresses  silhouetted  against  the  dark 
blue  vault  of  the  sky  with  its  incredibly  brilliant  stars.  He 
smiled  and  reflected  that  the  moon  would  be  gone  in  a  couple 
of  hours,  a  red  globe  over  Cordelio.  In  a  few  nights  it  would 
set  before  night-fall.  He  drank  his  liqueur.  A  moonless 
night  and  he  would  be  away  from  all  this.  He  wished  he 
were  back  at  Bairakli  now.  He  grudged  every  moment  away 
from  her.  He  had  caught  her  making  little  preparations  of 
her  own,  and  when  he  had  chaffed  her  she  had  looked  at  him 
in  an  enigmatic  way  with  her  bright  amber  eyes,  her  beautiful 
lips  closed,  and  gently  inhaling  through  her  nostrils.  What 
an  amazing  creature  she  was!  He  would  sit  and  watch  her 
in  the  house,  entranced,  oblivious  of  time  or  destiny.  He 
wished  Mrs.  Dainopoulos  could  know  of  his  happiness.  He 
never  suspected  that  when  Mrs.  Dainopoulos  at  length  heard 
of  this  episode,  it  was  expressed  in  a  single  shrug  of  the 
shoulders  and  a  faint  vanishing  smile.  The  song  ended  with 
a  tinkle: 

"  Oh,  I  ken  John  Peel,  from  my  bed  where  I  lay. 
As  he  passed  with  his  hounds  in  the  morning!  " 

and  there  was  a  murmur  of  applause.  Mr.  Spokesly,  looking 
out  into  the  darkness,  clapped  and  lit  another  cigarette. 
He  was  startled  by  a  great  crash  of  chords.     The  young  man, 


COMMAND  315 

a  cigar  in  his  teeth,  his  head  enveloped  in  a  blue  cloud  of 
smoke,  was  seated  at  the  piano.  Mr.  Spokesly  turned  and 
watched  him.     Mr.  Marsh  came  over  to  the  window,  smiling. 

"D'you  do  anything?"  he  asked.  "We  should  be  de- 
lighted, you  know,  if  you  would.  It  reUeves  the  tension, 
don't  you  think?" 

"Not  in  my  line,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly.  "I  never 
had  any  accomplishments." 

He  stood  listening  to  the  full,  rounded,  clangorous  voice, 
toned  down  to  Heine's  beautiful  words: 

*^Die  Luft  ist  kiihl  und  dunkelt, 
Und  ruhig  fliesst  der  Rheiriy 
Der  Gipfel  des  Berges  funkelt 
Im  Abend  Sonnenschein.'* 

"Wonderful  voice,"  whispered  Mr.  Marsh.  "Studied  at 
Leipzig.  Rather  a  talented  chap,  don't  you  think?  By  the 
way,  I  heard  to-night  they  intend  making  an  inspection  of  the 
outer  harbour  while  they  are  here.  Improving  the  defences. 
They  don't  want  any  more  ships  to  come  in  the  way  you  did. 
Of  course  it  was  luck  as  well  as  pluck.  Probably  lay  fresh 
mines." 

"Is  that  a  fact?"  asked  Mr.  Spokesly.  As  in  a  dream  he 
heard  the  applause,  himself  clapping  mechanically  and  then 
the  booming  of  bass  chords.  And  a  voice  like  a  silver  trum- 
pet, triumphant  and  vibrating,  blared  out  the  deathless  call 
of  the  lover  to  his  beloved : 

'* Isolde!     Geliebte!     Bist  du  mein? 
Hob  ich  dich  ivieder?'* 

"Well  it's  pretty  reliable.  A  friend  of  mine  who  is  in  the 
timber  trade — got  a  saw  mill  up  at  Menenen  and  uses  horses 
— ^has  been  given  a  contract  to  bring  down  a  lot  of  stones  to 
the  harbour.  Fill  all  those  lighters,  you  know.  That'll 
mean  quite  a  lot  of  work  for  you,  eh?" 

Mr.  Spokesly  turned  resolutely  to  the  window  and  looked 


316  COMMAND 

out  over  the  dark  roofs  at  the  lustrous  and  spangled  dome  of 
the  sky.  He  would  have  to  find  Cassar  and  give  him  some 
instructions  at  once.  It  would  be  impossible  to  get  away  if 
they  waited  for  a  swarm  of  workmen  and  officials  to  come 
down  and  be  for  ever  sailing  up  and  down  the  GuK.  He 
ought  to  have  thought  of  such  a  contingency.  He  must  find 
Cassar.  And  then  he  must  get  back  to  Evanthia  and  tell 
her  they  must  go  at  once.  To-morrow  night.  He  heard  the 
heavy  stamp  of  feet  that  greeted  the  end  of  the  song  and 
joined  in  without  thinking.  As  he  walked  across  to  the  door 
Mr.  Marsh  followed  him,  and  Mr.  Jokanian,  his  dark  yearn- 
ing eyes  brilliant  with  the  wine  he  had  drunk,  came  over 
making  gestures  of  protestation  as  another  voice  rose  from 
behind  the  grand  piano : 

**Enfant,  si  fStais  Roi,  je  donnerais  Vempire, 
Et  mon  char,  et  mon  sceptre,  et  mes  peuples  a  genoux, 
Et  mon  couronne  d'or,  et  mes  bains  de  porphyre." 

"I  am  coming  back,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  "but  I  must  see 
if  my  boat  is  ready.'* 

"You  don't  need  any  boat,"  said  Mr.  Jokanian.  "We  are 
going  back  in  my  carriage.  Mr.  Lietherthal  goes  with  us. 
I  have  invited  him." 

**Pour  un  regard  de  vous .'"  sang  the  voice,  and  trembled 
into  a  passionate  intricacy  of  arpeggios. 

"I  shall  not  be  long,"  he  repeated.  "I  must  tell  my  man 
I  sha'n't  need  it,  in  that  case." 

He  felt  he  must  get  out  of  there  at  once,  if  only  for  a  mo- 
ment. This  combination  of  wine  and  music  was  becoming 
too  much  for  him.  As  he  came  out  into  the  courtyard  he 
heard  Victor  Hugo's  superb  challenge  ring  out : 

** Enfant,  si  fStais  Dieu,  je  donnerais  le  CielT* 

He  walked  quickly  along  in  the  profound  shadow  of  the  Rue 
Parallel  until  he  reached  the  great  doors  of  the  Passage 
Kraemer.     Here  he  might  have  seen,  had  he  been  watchful. 


COMMAND  317 

in  a  corner  by  the  disused  elevator  of  the  hotel,  the  young  Jew 
talking  to  a  girl  in  cap  and  apron.  The  youth  saw  him  and 
clutched  his  companion's  arm. 

"Madama's  husband,"  he  whispered.  "The  English- 
man." 

"Well,"  said  the  girl,  bending  her  dark  brows  upon  the 
figure  hurrying  out  upon  the  quay,  "I  think  your  Madama  is 
a  fool." 

**S-sh!"  whimpered  the  young  man.  "She  is  the  most 
glorious  creature  in  the  world." 

"And  a  fool,"  repeated  the  girl.  "That  other  upstairs  in 
Suite  Fourteen  will  desert  her  in  a  month.  I  know  his  style. 
He  only  left  the  last  one  in  Kara-hissar,  so  his  servant  told 
us.  I  know  if  /  had  a  chance  of  marrying  an  English- 
man .  .  .  Yes!  She  has  got  you  anyhow,"  she  added, 
laughing.     "You  are  like  a  cony  in  love  with  a  snake." 

He  put  up  his  hand  in  warning,  as  though  he  feared  by 
some  occult  power  Madama  would  hear  these  rash  and  sac- 
rilegious words.  He  took  out  a  tiny  piece  of  paper  and  looked 
at  it. 

"I  must  go,"  he  said.  "You  are  certain  it  is  this  Frank, 
who  has  come?"  he  urged  anxiously. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  smiling  contemptuously.  "When  I  passed 
him  in  the  corridor,  he  put  his  arm  round  me  and  said  he 
would  love  me  for  ever.  You  can  tell  your  Madama  if  you 
like." 

Mr.  Spokesly,  unaware  of  this  conversation,  made  his  way 
out,  and  was  on  the  point  of  crossing  the  quay  by  the  custom 
house  when  Mr.  Cassar,  who  was  drinking  a  glass  of  syrup 
at  the  cafe  opposite,  ran  over  and  accosted  him. 

"Look  here "  began  Mr.  Spokesly. 

"I  know,"  interrupted  the  engineer.  "I've  heard  some- 
thing else.  Don't  go  over  there  now.  I  want  to  tell  you 
this.     Very  important.  Captain.     Will  you  have  a  drink?" 

"Coffee,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  sitting  at  a  table  in  front  of  a 
small  cafe.     "What  is  it?" 

"I  was  working  on  the  boat  this  afternoon,  after  you  had 
been  there,"  said  Mr.  Cassar,  "and  I  got  that  silencer  pretty 


318  COMMAND 

good  now,  and  some  oflScers  come  up  and  say,  this  boat  very 
good,  we  will  want  it.  They  make  inspection  of  harbour, 
you  understand.  I  say,  all  right,  what  time?  They  say 
to-morrow.  The  General  he  go  round  and  make  inspection. 
Want  all  three  motor  boats.  I  say  all  right.  But  I  was  wait- 
ing to  see  you.  If  I  miss  you  I  was  going  out  to  find  you  at 
your  house.     You  understand.?" 

Mr.  Spokesly  nodded.  He  understood  perfectly  well. 
He  reflected  upon  the  wisdom  of  staying  away  from  the 
Consulate  after  saying  he  would  go  back.  He  decided  it 
would  be  better  to  return. 

"You  will  have  to  get  off,"  said  Mr.  Cassar  in  a  matter-of- 
fact  tone  as  he  looked  away  towards  the  mountains.  "Don't 
you  think  so.  Captain?" 

"Plenty  of  time,"  Mr.  Spokesly  muttered,  "before  day- 
light.   Are  you  sure  you  are  all  right?     Got  everything?" 

"Yes,  everything,"  said  Mr.  Cassar  positively. 

" Right,"  said  his  commander.  "  Now  you  tell  the  customs 
guard  I  return  to  Bairakli  at  midnight.  You  go  with  me  to 
bring  the  boat  back  as  they  want  it  in  the  morning.  And  if 
I  don't  come  before  one  o'clock,  you  go  alone.  I  shall  be 
going  by  road.  Some  of  them  asked  me  to  go  with  them. 
You  go  alone  and  wait  for  me  at  the  bath-house  jetty.  Can 
you  remember  that?" 

"Easy,"  said  Mr.  Cassar.     "It  is  ten  o'clock  now." 

"I'll  go  back,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly. 

The  evening  was  just  beginning  along  the  front  as  he 
passed  once  again  through  the  great  Passage  beneath  the 
hotel.  There  was  no  young  Jew  watching  him  now.  That 
highly  strung  and  bewildered  creature  was  hurrying  through 
the  lower  town  on  his  way  to  Bairakli,  bearing  authentic 
news  for  his  mistress.  He  had  an  uneasy  suspicion  that  the 
person  described  by  his  friend  in  the  hotel  would  not  prove 
so  good  a  friend  as  Mr.  Spokesly.  But  he  hurried  on  past 
the  little  Turkish  shops,  his  fez  on  the  back  of  his  head,  the 
lamplight  reflected  on  the  bony  ridge  of  the  large  glistening 
nose  that  rose  up  between  his  scared  pale  eyes  and  sallow 
cheeks.     All   along   the    lonely   road    beyond   the   railway 


COMMAND  31ft 

station  he  tripped  and  stumbled,  muttering  to  himself:  "Oh^ 
Madama,  he  is  come,  he  is  come!  I  bring  great  news.  He 
is  come!"  Sometimes  he  clasped  his  hands  in  an  ecstasy  of 
emotion  and  would  almost  fall  into  some  unnoticed  slough 
or  channel  by  the  way.  All  the  griefs  of  the  poor  seemed  to- 
concentrate  themselves  upon  him  as  he  moaned  and  stag- 
gered. "Father  of  Israel,  what  shall  I  do  if  she  abandon  me? 
There  is  no  food  for  a  fatherless  boy  here.    Oh,  Madama!" 

But  when  at  length  he  scrambled  up  to  the  house  on  the 
hillside  and  saw  his  mistress  and  Esther  Jokanian  sitting  in 
the  window  overlooking  the  sea,  he  took  heart  again.  When 
Evanthia,  leaning  out  in  a  loose  robe  that  showed  transparent 
against  the  lamp  behind  her,  called,  "Who  is  there?"  he  re- 
plied that  it  was  her  faithful  servant  with  news.  She  came 
down  like  a  swiftly  moving  phantom  and  unlocked  the 
gate,  pulling  it  wide  with  her  characteristic  energy  and 
courage. 

"Speak!"  she  said  in  a  thrilling,  dramatic  whisper,  all  her 
soul  responding  to  the  moment.  The  youth  held  out  his 
hand  palm  upward  while  he  leaned  his  head  against  the  rough 
wall. 

"Oh,  Madama,  he  is  come,"  he  replied  in  a  low  tone,  as 
though  he  sensed  the  formidable  importance  of  his  words  in 
their  lives.  She  stood  staring  at  him  for  a  second  and  then, 
pulling  him  in,  she  closed  the  gate  with  a  tremendous  clang 
that  jarred  the  very  foundation  of  his  reason.  It  was  at 
times  like  these  that  this  young  man,  born  into  a  chaotic 
world  of  alien  beings  intent  upon  inexplicable  courses  of 
action,  inspired  by  unknown  and  possibly  sinister  ideals,  was 
upon  the  point  of  dashing  his  head  with  maniac  energy 
against  those  heavy  ancient  stones  which,  by  comparison, 
seemed  less  foreign  to  his  distracted  soul. 

"  Come,"  she  said  with  a  mysterious  smile.  "  Your  fortune 
is  made.     You  must  go  back  with  a  message." 

"Oh,  Madama!"  he  wailed. 

She  dragged  him  up  the  steps  leading  to  the  rooms  above. 

"Endlich!"  she  cried  to  Esther,  who  sat  by  the  window, 
chin  on  hand,  and  muttering  in  her  husky  man's  voice.     "He 


820  COMMAND 

is  here.  I  must  have  been  born  with  good  fortune  after 
all." 

"You  are  throwing  away  the  greatest  chance  in  your  life," 
growled  Esther  without  looking  at  her.  The  young  man  gave 
a  stifled  yelp  and  choked,  holding  his  arms  out  as  though  in 
supplication.  They  looked  at  him,  but  he  could  not  proceed. 
His  courage  failed  as  his  exacerbated  imagination  pictured 
the  tigerish  glare  in  Evanthia's  eyes  if  he  should  tell  her  about 
the  last  one  that  was  left  at  Kara-hissar.  He  put  a  hand  to 
his  throat  and  mumbled :  * '  The  message ,  Madama  ?  It  is  late . ' ' 

"You  do  not  understand,"  said  Evanthia  crossly  to  her 
friend.  "What  do  you  think  I  am  made  of.^  Do  you  think 
I  can  go  on  for  ever  like  this,  pretending  love?  Men!  I  use 
them,  my  friend.  The  lover  of  my  heart  is  here,  and  you  ask 
me  to  go  out  on  that  cursed  water  to  a  country  where  it  is 
dark  wet  fog  all  the  time.  What  should  I  do  there.'*  My 
God,  are  you  mad?  Now  I  shall  go  to  Europe,  and  for  once 
I  shall  live.  Ah!  The  message!  Here!"  She  dragged  a 
blank  page  from  a  yellow  paper-covered  volume  lying  on  a 
cedar- wood  console  and  hunted  for  a  pencil.  With  a  frag- 
ment of  black  crayon  she  began  to  scrawl  her  name  in  stag- 
gering capitals.  "  So ! "  she  muttered.  "  Now  I  shall  put  the 
words  Hebe  dich.  Sacre!  When  I  go  to  Europe  I  will  learn 
this  writing — or  have  a  secretary.  There!  It  is  enough  for 
my  dear  lunatic.  Take  it ! "  She  folded  it  and  gave  it  to  the 
youth  who  stood  by  the  door  dejectedly.  "Ask  for  the  Herr 
Leutnant  Lietherthal.  Go  down  and  eat  first."  She  gave 
him  a  pat  on  the  shoulder  that  seemed  to  put  a  fresh  stream 
of  life  into  him,  and  he  disappeared. 

"Take  care,  Esther,  do  not  tell  him  a  word  of  this.  Or 
thy  husband  either.     He  might  speak  in  forgetfulness." 

"  It  is  nothing  to  me,"  muttered  Esther.  "  I  like  him,  that 
is  all.     And  fidelity  is  best." 

"Fidelity!"  said  Evanthia  slowly.  "And  is  not  this 
fidelity?  Have  I  not  followed  the  lover  of  my  heart  across 
the  world?  If  the  father  of  thy  boy  came  up  here  and 
knocked  at  the  gate  .  .  .  You  talk!  I  am  not  a  white- 
faced  Frank  girl  to  be  a  slave  of  an  Englishman!    He  gives 


COMMAND  321 

me  all  his  money  here,  yes.  But  in  his  England,  when  I  am 
shut  up  in  the  fog  and  rain,  how  much  will  I  get,  hein  ?'*  her 
voice  rose  to  a  shout,  a  brazen  clangour  of  the  throat,  and  her 
hand  shot  out  before  her,  clenched,  as  though  she  were  about 
to  hurl  thunderbolts. 

"Very  well,"  assented  Esther  in  a  low  tone,  "but  you  don't 
know  if  the  lover  of  your  heart  wants  you  any  more.  The 
lovers  of  the  heart  are  funny  fish,"  she  added  grimly. 

"Prrtt!  You  are  right,"  said  Evanthia  in  an  ordinary 
tone.     "Did  I  say  I  was  going  away  to-night,  stupid?" 

"I  see  the  light  of  the  boat,"  said  Esther.  "Perhaps  my 
husband  is  with  him.     I  must  go  back  to  my  house." 

"No!  Stay  here  a  little."  Evanthia  laid  hold  of  her. 
"To-night  I  must  have  someone  with  me.  I  am  shaken  in 
my  mind.     I  shall  want  to  shriek.     Stay." 

"It  is  at  the  jetty,"  said  Esther  soberly.  She  looked  out 
into  a  dense  darkness,  and  in  the  lower  distance  she  could  see  a 
tiny  light  where  the  launch  had  run  alongside  the  old  bath- 
house jetty.     And  then  the  light  went  out. 

They  waited  in  silence,  smoking  cigarettes,  until  their 
quick  ears  caught  the  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  hillside.  And 
then  the  grind  of  a  key  in  the  great  lock  of  the  gate. 

As  Mr.  Spokesly  came  into  the  room  he  barely  sensed  the 
tension  of  the  atmosphere.  He  broke  breathlessly  into  his 
news  at  once. 

"Quick!"  he  said  in  a  low  tone.  "We  must  go  to-night, 
dear.  After  to-night  I  may  not  have  any  boat.  It  is  all 
ready.  Come  now.  We  have  time  to  get  out  of  sight  of 
land  before  daylight." 

"To-night!"  exclaimed  Evanthia,  clutching  her  breast,  and 
thinking  rapidly.     "Impossible." 

"It  will  be  impossible  any  other  night,"  he  retorted  gently. 
"We  must  go." 

Evanthia  backed  away,  thinking  clearly,  concisely,  and 
skilfully  behind  her  astonishment.     He  turned  to  Esther. 

"You  tell  her,"  he  said.  "We  must  go.  It  is  our  last 
chance.  It  was  lucky  I  heard  about  it.  They  are  going  to 
fortify  the  Gulf.     Go  and  get  ready,  dear.     Bring  me  a 


322  COMMAND 

blanket  and  I'll  carry  it  down,  and  some  bread  and  meat. 
Enough  for  a  day,  anyhow." 

*' Where  is  my  'usband'.^'*  demanded  Esther. 

"He's  coming  by  the  road.  He's  got  some  friends  with 
him,  from  the  hotel.  You  mustn't  mind  them  being  a  bit 
elevated.  Plenty  of  wine  to-night.  They  will  be  here  soon, 
I  expect.     I  want  to  get  down  and  away  before  they  arrive." 

Evanthia,  folding  a  blanket  in  the  bedroom,  stood  per- 
fectly still.  She  could  hear  her  own  pulses  thumping,  and 
she  put  her  hand  to  her  throat.  She  felt  as  though  her  heart 
would  burst  if  she  did  not  gain  control  of  herself.  She  stood 
perfectly  still  thinking,  her  mind  darting  this  way  and  that, 
as  a  trapped  animal  tests  the  resistance  of  the  trap  in  every 
direction.  For  a  moment  she  thought  of  killing  him  as  they 
went  down  to  the  boat.  She  was  strong:  she  felt  she  could  do 
it.  Under  the  shoulder-blades  and  in  the  throat.  No,  she 
must  wait.  Only  as  a  last  resource,  that.  She  folded  up  the 
blaidiet  and  walked  back  into  the  room  to  give  him  the  food. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  with  the  blanket  and  loaves  of 
bread  in  his  arms,  unable  to  utter  what  he  felt  for  her  sacrifice 
for  him.     He  could  only  say  stumblingly: 

"I  sha'n't  forget  this.  I  know  that  much,"  and  hurried 
away  with  his  burden. 

Esther  sprang  up  from  her  seat  by  the  window.  Her 
misfortunes  had  not  made  her  hard.  She  saw  a  light  in 
Evanthia's  amber  eyes  as  she  made  her  preparations,  a  light 
that  frightened  her. 

"Nobody  will  ever  be  able  to  do  anything  with  you,"  she 
muttered.  "I  must  go  home  to  get  supper  for  my  husband. 
You  got  a  good  man,  and  you  throw  him  away  like  so  much 
rubbish.     You  got  no  sense." 

"I  go!"  said  Evanthia,  pausing  with  her  hands  full  of 
things  she  was  stuflBng  into  a  bag.     "Do  I  not  go.'*" 

"You  go!"  said  Esther  savagely.  "You  make  him  take 
you  to  the  town  to  see  your  fellow." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Evanthia,  stopping  again  and  stifling  a 
laugh.  She  had  not  thought  of  such  a  thing.  "What  you 
must  think  of  me!"  she  murmured. 


COMMAND  323 

"And  then  tell  him  you  are  finished.  You  have  a  heart, 
yes,  as  big  as  that  ring  on  your  finger.  You  take  everything 
from  him,  and  now  you     .     .     ." 

With  a  sudden  gesture  of  rage  the  girl  flung  the  things  away 
and  stood  up  to  her  friend. 

"I'll  kill  you!"  she  growled  through  her  teeth.  "I  know 
you !  You  are  jealous,  jealous,  jealous !  I  see  you  talk,  talk 
English  to  him  at  the  bath-house.  I  see  you  go  out  with 
him  for  the  walk  through  the  village.  I  hear  you  talk  to  him 
about  that  girl  Vera  he  saw  once  in  Odessa.  All  right!  Go 
with  him!  Go!  Here  are  the  things.  Take  them!  I  spit 
at  you.     You     .     .     .'* 

She  fell  back,  exhausted  with  the  ferocity  of  her  passion, 
her  hands  still  making  gestures  of  dismissal  to  the  silent  and 
scornful  Esther  who  remained  motionless  yet  alert,  ready  to 
take  her  own  part. 

"You  are  altogether  mad!"  she  said  at  last  in  her  husky 
tones.     "Here  is  your  husband.     Tell  him,  tell  him.    .    .    ." 

Evanthia  spun  round  where  she  stood  with  her  hands  on 
her  bosom. 

"We  must  go,  dear,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly  and  paused  in 
astonishment  at  the  scene.  With  a  convulsive  movement  the 
girl  tore  at  her  dress  and  then  flung  out  her  hand  towards  the 
shore. 

"Go  then,  go!  Why  do  you  come  here  any  more.?  You 
want  her.  There  she  is,  jealous  because  all  the  men  want  me. 
Look  at  her.  She  ask  you  with  her  eyes.  Oh,  yah !  I  hate 
you!    I  never  love  you.     It  is  finish.     Go!" 

"Eh!"  he  called,  swallowing  hard.  He  looked  at  Esther 
in  amazement.  "What  is  this.?"  he  asked.  "What  have 
you  said  to  her.?     My  dear!" 

"You  better  go,"  said  Esther  sullenly.  "She  won't  go 
with  you.     Can't  you  see.?" 

"But  how  can  I  go  without  her.?"  he  exclaimed. 

"I  kill  myself  before  I  go.  This  is  my  place.  Go  back, 
you.     I  hate  you." 

Esther  came  over  to  him  and,  taking  up  the  satchel,  thrust 
him  out  before  her.     Down  the  steps  and  across  the  dark 


824  COMMAND 

garden  she  went  with  him,  and  only  when  the  great  gate 
clanged  did  he  make  an  effort  to  break  through  the  dreadful 
paralysis  of  mind  that  had  assailed  him. 

"What  made  her  go  on  like  that?"  he  demanded  drearily. 

"Go  on.  I  tell  you  in  a  minute.  You  men,  you  got  no 
sense." 

"But  what  did  she  mean,  about  you.'^" 

"Nothing.     She's  crazy.     You  no  understand." 

"You  said  yourself  she'd  come,"  he  insisted. 

"Yes,  I  say  so.  I  tell  her  she  better  come.  But  you  no 
understand  women." 

He  was  destined  to  find  out,  as  years  went  by,  that  this  was 
true.  And  when  they  stood  on  the  jetty  and  looked  down 
into  the  obscurity  where  Mr.  Cassar  sat  in  the  boat  patiently 
awaiting  his  passengers,  Mr.  Spokesly  began  to  regain  com- 
mand of  himself.  For  a  moment,  up  there,  he  had  been  all 
abroad.  The  sudden  emotional  upheaval  hardened  his 
resolve. 

"Well!"  he  said  with  a  sudden  intake  of  breath,  and 
paused,  once  more  overwhelmed  by  the  change  in  his  affairs. 
"  I  don't  know  what  to  say,  Esther."  He  put  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder  and  she  twisted  away  a  little.  "I  feel  as  if  I'd  been 
having  a  long  dream,  and  just  woke  up." 

"Go!"  she  said  huskily.  "Good-bye.  Good  fortune. 
There  is  a  carriage  coming.     My  'usban'." 

"Anyhow  .  .  .  Esther.  I  did  what  I  promised  her 
to  do  .  .  .  not  my  fault."  He  got  down  into  the  boat 
"Where's  your  hand.'^  Good-bye  .  .  .  good-bye.  .  .  . 
Push  off,  son,  push  off.     .     .     .     After  all  I  done.     .     .     ." 

They  saw,  from  a  little  way  off,  the  white  form  of  Esther 
spring  forward  and  vanish  behind  the  buildings  as  a  feeble 
yellow  flicker  from  a  carriage  lamp  crawled  slowly  along  the 
road  and  stopped.  They  heard  laughter  and  confused  argu- 
ments. 

"Drunk!"  whispered  Mr.  Cassar  without  either  envy  or 
malice. 

"Full  to  the  guards,"  assented  his  commander.     "Hark!" 

Someone   was    singing,  a   full   youthful  voice  of  brazen 


COMMAND  825 

vibrant  quality,  a  voice  with  an  ineluctable  and  derisive 
challenge  to  confident  hearts.  Though  he  did  not  under- 
stand the  words,  Mr,  Spokesly  was  aware  of  this  challenge 
as  he  listened : 

**Auf,  deutches  Volk,  du  stark  Geschlecht 

Es  schlug  die  grosse  Stunde, 
Steh  auf  und  sei  nicht  Idnger  Knecht 
Mit  Kraft  und  mut  steh  fur  dein  Recht 

Im  heilgen  Volke  hunde !  " 

There  was  a  pause,  with  protests  and  guttural  amusement 
which  were  suddenly  engulfed  in  a  clarion  shout : 

"Die  Freiheit  bricht  die  Ketten !  " 

"Go  ahead,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly,  looking  back  as  he  sat  in 
the  stern,  "and  make  as  little  noise  as  you  can.'* 

Out  of  the  darkness  came  the  faint  clarion  call  he  had 
already  heard  that  night: 

"  Isolde !     Geliebte  I     Bist  du  mein  ?  " 

and  the  soimd,  with  its  echoes  from  the  mountain,  seemed  to 
stream  out  of  that  open  window  he  had  left.  Suddenly,  with 
a  resolute  movement,  he  turned  and  bent  to  the  business  of 
steering.     The  boat  was  moving  through  the  water. 

"  Let  her  out,"  he  muttered,  looking  at  his  watch.  **  We've 
got  four  hours  to  daylight." 

And  the  dawn  found  him  there,  still  crouching  motionless 
at  the  tiller,  while  behind  them  the  mountains  of  Lesbos  rose 
enormous,  the  sun  rising  over  Asia.  And  ahead  lay  the  dark 
sparkle  of  an  empty  sea. 


CONCLUSION 

ALL  I  can  say  is,"  said  the  elderly  lieutenant,  and  he 
applied  himself  assiduously  to  the  trimming  of  his 
nails,  "you  were  in  luck  all  through." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Spokesly.  "I  suppose  you  can  call  it 
that." 

He  was  not  entirely  satisfied  that  this  constituted  an  ade- 
quate description  of  his  experiences.  Luck  is  a  slippery 
word.  As  witness  the  old  lieutenant,  intent  on  his  nails,  like 
some  red-nosed  old  animal  engaged  in  furbishing  his  claws, 
who  proceeded  without  looking  up : 

"Why,  what  else  could  you  call  it?  You  surely  didn't 
want  that  woman  hanging  round  your  neck  all  your  life  like  a 
millstone,  did  you?  What  if  she  did  keep  hold  of  the  money? 
I  call  it  cheap  at  the  price.  And  suppose  you'd  brought  her. 
How  could  you  have  squared  things?     /  call  it  lucky." 

Mr.  Spokesly,  however,  did  not  feel  that  way.  He  looked 
round  at  the  green  expanse  of  St.  James's  Park  and  up  towards 
the  enormous  arch  which  enshrines  the  dignity  and  cumbrous 
f>ower  of  the  Victorian  Age,  and  wondered  if  the  taste  of  life 
would  ever  come  back.  It  was  now  eighteen  months  since 
he  had  experienced  what  the  elderly  lieutenant  called  un- 
common luck,  when  a  sloop  of  war,  hurrying  on  her  regular 
patrol  from  Lemnos  to  Malta  had  found  him  and  Mr.  Cassar 
in  their  boat  some  ten  miles  east  of  Psara  Island,  a  black 
spot  on  a  blue  sea,  over  which  there  fluttered  a  patch  of  white. 
And  on  coming  cautiously  alongside,  the  commander  of  that 
sloop  was  surprised  to  discover  a  Maltee  engineer  somewhat  in 
disarray  through  his  struggles  with  his  engine,  and  under  a 
blanket  in  the  bilge  forward  a  sick  Englishman. 

For  Mr.  Spokesly  had  been  sick.  Looking  back  at  it  from 
this  seat  in  St.  James's  Park,  with  his  demobilization  com- 


COMMAND  327 

pleted,  he  saw  well  enough  that  the  culmination  of  the  spirit- 
ual stresses  under  which  he  had  been  existing  had  been  sud- 
denly transmuted  into  a  bodily  collapse.  As  the  sun  rose 
over  the  iEgean,  he  had  given  the  tiller  to  Mr.  Cassar  and 
lain  down  without  a  word.  He  had  not  cared  whether  he 
ever  got  up  or  not.  He  lay  staring  up  at  the  extraordinary 
brilliance  of  the  sky,  his  throat  very  sore,  his  eyes  tired  and 
smarting,  a  feverish  tremor  in  his  limbs,  refusing  food,  and 
even  when  the  engine  stopped,  giving  no  sign  that  he  was 
aware  of  any  change  in  their  fortunes.  It  had  only  been 
when  Mr.  Cassar  informed  him  of  the  sloop  bearing  down 
upon  them  that  he  rose  on  an  elbow  and  croaked  hoarsely: 

"Show  a  white  flag;  handkerchief  or  something,"  and  fell 
back,  drawing  the  blanket  over  himself.  He  had  been  very 
sick.  The  surgeon,  without  waiting  for  a  temperature  read- 
ing, had  carried  him  away  into  an  extremely  hygienic  sick- 
bay, where  between  a  boy  with  tonsillitis  and  a  stoker  with  a 
burnt  arm,  he  had  lain  all  the  way  to  Malta.  And  after  that, 
during  weeks  of  dreary  waiting,  he  had  looked  out  of  the  high 
windows  of  the  Bighi  Hospital  across  the  Harbour  to  Val- 
letta, watching  the  ships  go  in  and  out,  and  seeing  the  great 
flame  of  the  sunset  show  up  the  battlements  of  the  Lower 
Barracca  and  die  in  purple  glory  behind  the  domes  and 
turrets  of  the  city. 

For  it  seemed  to  him,  in  his  intervals  of  lucid  reflection, 
that  the  taste  of  life  had  gone,  not  to  return.  It  had  gone, 
and  in  place  of  it  was  an  exceedingly  bitter  flavour  of  hu- 
miliation and  frustrated  dreams.  It  was  almost  too  sudden  a 
revelation  of  his  own  emotional  folly  for  any  feeling  save  a 
numb  wonder  to  remain.  He  had  told  Esther  that  he  felt  as 
though  he  had  had  a  long  dream  and  was  suddenly  woke  up. 
And  while  this  was  true  enough  of  his  mind,  which  main- 
tained a  dreary  alertness  during  his  sickness,  his  heart  on  the 
other  hand  was  in  a  condition  of  stupor  and  oblivious  repose. 
Even  when  sufficiently  recovered  to  walk  abroad  and  sit  at 
the  little  tables  in  the  arcades  by  the  Libreria,  or  to  journey 
across  the  Marsamuscetto  to  Sliema  and  follow  the  long 
smooth  white  beach,  he  moved  slowly  because  he  had  no 


828  COMMAND 

accurate  means  of  gauging  his  intensity  of  existence.  He 
would  mutter  to  himself  in  a  sort  of  depressed  whisper: 
"What's  the  matter  with  me,  I  wonder?" 

The  surgeons  had  called  it  something  ending  in  osis  and 
prescribed  finally  "light  duty."  He  remembered  that  light 
duty  now  well  enough;  a  commission  as  lieutenant  and  the 
visiting  of  many  offices  in  the  formidable  buildings  which 
constituted  the  dockyard.  And  gradually,  as  the  scope  and 
meaning  of  this  work  became  apparent,  he  found  a  certain 
interest  returning,  an  anticipation  of  the  next  week  and  per- 
haps month.  But  of  the  years  he  did  not  dare  to  think  just 
yet. 

Because,  once  established  there,  he  had  sought,  as  a  hom- 
ing pigeon  its  cotes,  to  find  Ada.  He  had  written,  full  of 
weariness  and  a  sort  of  gentle  contrition,  and  implored  her  to 
write.  He  had  missed  all  the  mails  since  the  Tanganyika  had 
gone — ^she  must  make  allowances  for  the  hazards  of  the  sea, 
and  try  again.  He  had  put  a  shy,  boyish  postscript  to  it, 
a  genuine  afterthought — "I  want  so  much  to  see  you  again," 
and  mailed  it  on  the  Marseilles  boat. 

To  that  there  had  come  nothing  in  reply  save  a  letter  from 
her  married  sister,  who  evaded  the  subject  for  three  pages  and 
finally  explained  that  her  own  husband  was  missing  and  Ada 
was  married.  The  paper  had  distinctly  said  all  were  lost  on 
the  Tanganyika.  Ada's  husband  was  a  manufacturer  of 
munitions  in  the  Midlands,  making  a  colossal  income,  she 
believed.  They  lived  in  a  magnificent  old  mansion  in  the 
West  Riding.  The  writer  of  the  letter  was  going  up  to  spend 
a  week  with  them  and  would  be  sure  to  mention  him.  She 
had  already  sent  on  his  letter  and  Ada  had  asked  her  to  write. 

There  it  was,  then.  Both  ends  of  the  cord  on  which  he  had 
been  precariously  balanced  had  been  cut  down,  and  he  had 
had  no  interior  buoyancy  which  could  have  kept  him  from 
hitting  the  earth  with  conclusive  violence.  And  near  the 
earth  for  a  long  time  he  had  remained,  very  much  in  doubt 
whether  he  would  ever  go  about  again  with  the  old  confidence. 
Possibly  he  would  never  have  done  so,  had  not  an  accident 
sent  him  out  to  sea  on  patrol  service.    Here  came  relief  in 


COMMAND  829 

the  shape  of  that  active  enemy  he  had  preferred  to  his 
bureaucratic  and  scornful  government.  Here  was  an  in- 
visible and  tireless  adversary,  waiting  days,  weeks,  and 
possibly  months  for  his  chance,  and  smashing  home  at  last 
with  horrible  thoroughness.  This,  in  Mr.  Spokesly's  present 
condition,  was  a  tonic.  He  got  finally  into  a  strange,  shuttle- 
like contraption  with  twin  gasolene-engines,  a  pop-gun,  and 
a  crew  of  six.  They  went  out  in  this  water-roach  and  per- 
formed a  number  of  deeds  which  were  eventually  incorpo- 
rated in  official  reports  and  extracted  by  inaccurate  special 
correspondents  whose  duty  it  was  to  explain  naval  occasions 
to  beleaguered  England,  an  England  whose  neglect  of  seamen 
was  almost  sublime  until  the  food-ships  were  threatened. 

So  he  had  found  a  niche  again  in  life,  and  very  slowly  the 
dead  flat  look  in  his  face  gave  way  to  one  of  sharp  scrutiny. 
When  he  came  ashore  from  his  cock-boat  he  would  go  to  a 
hotel  in  a  street  like  a  scene  from  the  Tales  of  Hoffmann  y  and 
he  would  sleep  in  a  great  bed  in  a  mighty  room  where  papal 
legates  had  snored  in  preceding  centuries,  and  the  rulers  of 
commanderies  had  dictated  letters  to  the  grand  masters  of 
their  order.  But  even  there,  in  that  seclusion  and  fine  re- 
pository of  faith  and  peace,  he  dared  not  recall  that  last  ad- 
venture at  Bairakli,  that  catastrophe  of  his  soul.  Even  the 
banjo  of  the  occupant  of  the  next  room,  a  nice-looking  boy 
with  many  medals  and  a  staff  appointment,  did  not  mean 
much  to  him.  He  listened  apathetically  to  the  nice  young 
voice  singing  a  Kipling  ballad : 

*^Funny  arC  yellow  an*  faithful — 

Doll  in  a  tea-cup  she  were. 
But  we  lived  on  the  square,  like  a  true-married  pair. 

An'  I  learned  about  women  from  'eri" 

But  the  nice  boy  had  never  lived  and  never  would  five  with 
anybody  on  such  terms,  and  his  clear  young  voice  lacked  the 
plangent  irony  of  the  battered  idealist.  It  was  perfectly 
obvious  that  he  was  entirely  ignorant  of  the  formidable  dis- 
tortion of  character  which  living  with  people  brought  about. 
He  evidently  imagined  marriage  was  a  good  joke  and  living 


330  COMMAND 

with  girls  a  bad  joke.  Mr.  Spokesly  would  lie  on  his  huge 
bed  and  try  to  get  his  bearings  while  his  neighbour  gave  his 
version  of  "Keep  the  Home  Fires  Burning'*  and  "I'd  Wait 
Till  the  End  of  the  World  for  You."  He  was  visible  some- 
times, on  his  balcony  overlooking  the  steep  Via  Sant'  Lucia 
raising  his  eyes  with  a  charming  and  entirely  idiotic  diflSdence 
to  other  balconies  where  leaned  dark-browed  damsels,  and 
dreaming  the  bright  and  honourable  dreams  of  the  well- 
brought-up  young  Englishman.  Mr.  Spokesly  got  no  assist- 
ance from  such  as  he.  Even  in  his  most  fatuous  moments  he 
had  known  that  for  them  the  war  was  only  an  unusually 
gigantic  and  bloody  football  match,  for  which  they  claimed 
the  right  to  establish  the  rules.  When  it  was  over  we  would 
all  go  back  to  our  places  in  the  world  and  touch  our  hats  to 
them,  the  landed  gentry  of  mankind. 

Sitting  on  his  park-seat,  under  the  shadow  of  Victoria's 
triumphal  arch,  Mr.  Spokesly  saw  this  would  not  be  the  case. 
Behind  his  own  particular  problem,  which  was  to  regain, 
somehow  or  other,  the  taste  of  life,  he  saw  something  else 
looming.  How  were  these  very  charming  and  delightful 
beings,  the  survivors  of  an  age  of  gentles  and  simples,  of 
squires  and  serfs,  to  be  aroused  to  the  fact  that  they  were  no 
longer  accepted  as  the  heirs  of  all  the  ages?  How  to  make 
them  see  the  millions  of  people  of  alien  races  moving  slowly, 
like  huge  masses  of  rotting  putrescence,  to  a  new  life?  In- 
deed, they  were  very  fond  of  using  those  words  "rotten"  and 
"  putrid  "  for  alien  things  they  did  not  like.  He  felt  sure  they 
would  apply  both  to  Mr.  Dainopqulos,  for  example,  and  those 
men  he  met  at  the  Consulate.  And  with  a  twinge  he  reflected 
they  might  say  the  same  thing  about  Evanthia,  if  they  knew 
it  all.  Yet  they  must  be  made  to  know,  those  of  them  who 
were  left,  that  the  game  was  up  for  the  cheerful  schoolboy 
with  no  ascertainable  ideas.  The  very  vitality  of  these  alien 
races  was  enough  to  sound  a  warning.  "After  all,"  Mr.  Marsh 
had  said  in  his  throaty  way,  "you  can't  beat  that  type,  you 
know."  And  the  question  looming  up  in  the  back  of  Mr* 
Spokesly's  mind,  as  he  sat  on  that  seat  in  St.  James's  Park, 
•"Couldn't  you?" 


COMMAND  331 

He  discovered  with  a  shock  that  his  friend  the  elderly 
lieutenant,  who  had  been  visiting  the  Admiralty  that  morn- 
ing and  so  had  met  Mr.  Spokesly,  was  explaining  some- 
thing: 

"I  told  him  that  taking  everything  into  consideration,  I 
really  couldn't  see  my  way.  Not  now.  You  see,  we  aren't 
getting  any  younger,  and  my  wife  is  so  attached  to  Chingford 
she  won't  hear  of  leaving.  And  of  course  I  couldn't  go  out 
there  alone  now." 

"Where  did  you  say  it  was?"  Mr.  Spokesly  asked.  He 
had  not  heard. 

"West  Indies.  It's  a  new  oiling  station  and  they  want  an 
experienced  harbour-master.  You  see,  I  knew  about  it,  oh, 
years  ago,  when  the  place  was  first  projected,  and  I  put  in  for 
it.  And  now  he's  offered  it  to  me,  I  can't  go.  I  don't  have 
to,  you  see.  And  yet  I  would  like  to  put  someone  in  the 
way  of  it  for  the  old  chap's  sake.  So  I  say,  why  don't  you 
go  round  and  see  him?  Three  hundred  a  year  and  quarters. 
It  isn't  so  dusty,  I  can  assure  you.  If  I  hadn't  been  rather 
lucky  in  my  investments  I  would  be  very  glad  to  go,  I  can 
tell  you  that." 

And  the  odd  thing,  to  Mr.  Spokesly's  mind,  was  that  he  did 
not  envy  his  elderly  friend's  happy  position  as  to  his  invest- 
ments. Here  again  luck  masqueraded  as  a  slippery  word. 
Was  he  so  lucky?  From  where  he  sat  now,  beneath  the  Arch 
of  the  great  queen  of  the  money-making,  steam-engine  era — 
the  era,  that  is,  when  the  steam-engines  made  the  money  and 
the  old  order  fattened  upon  rents  and  royalties — Mr.  Spoke- 
sly was  able  to  see  that  money  was  no  longer  an  adequate 
gauge  of  a  man's  calibre.  One  had  to  grow,  and  that  was 
another  name  for  suffering.  In  his  hand  was  a  newspaper, 
and  as  he  turned  it  idly,  his  eye  caught  an  urgent  message  in 
heavy  type.  The  London  School  of  Mnemonics  pleaded 
with  him  to  join  up  in  the  armies  of  Efficiency.  They  urged 
him  to  get  out  of  the  rut  and  fit  himself  for  executive  positions 
with  high  salaries  attached.  His  eye  wandered  from  the 
paper  to  the  vista  of  the  Mall,  where  the  metallic  products  of 
efficiency  were  ranged  in  quadruple  lines  of  ugliness,  the  stark 


332  COMMAND 

witnesses  of  human  ineptitude.  He  saw  the  children  playing 
about  those  extraordinarily  unlovely  enemy  guns,  their 
muzzles  split  and  dribbling  with  rust,  their  wheels  splayed 
outwards  like  mechanical  paralytics,  and  he  fell  to  wondering 
if  he  could  not  find  his  way  out  of  his  spiritual  diflBculties 
sooner  if  he  did  what  his  friend  suggested.  He  would  have  to 
do  something.  A  few  hundred  pounds  was  all  he  had.  And 
the  chances  of  a  sea  job  were  not  immediately  promising. 
He  recalled  his  visit  the  other  day  to  the  office  of  the  owners 
of  the  Tanganyika,  and  the  impression  he  had  gained  that 
their  enthusiasm  had  cooled.  They  had  done  a  big  business 
with  Bremen  before  the  war,  and  they  would  be  doing  a  big 
business  again  soon.  Their  attitude  had  contrasted  oddly 
with  the  roU-of -honour  tablet  in  the  office  where,  printed  in 
gold,  he  had  seen  the  names  of  the  officers  of  the  Tanganyika 
"murdered  by  the  enemy.'*  All  save  his  own.  Somehow 
that  word  "murdered,"  to  him  who  had  been  there,  did  not 
ring  true.  It  was  like  the  nice  schoolboy's  "rotten"  and 
"putrid";  it  signified  a  mood,  now  gone  no  one  knew  where. 
It  was  like  Lietherthal's  *'Die  Freiheit  bricht  die  Ketten,'^  a 
gesture  which  meant  nothing  to  the  millions  of  Hindoos, 
Mongolians,  Arabs,  Africans,  and  Latins  in  the  world.  "A 
family  squabble,"  that  sharp  young  man  had  called  it,  a  mere 
curtain-raiser  to  a  gigantic  struggle  for  existence  between  the 
races.     .     .     . 

He  rose  and  turned  to  his  friend. 

"It's  the  very  thing  for  me,"  he  said.  "I  don't  feel  any 
particular  fancy  for  staying  on  in  England." 

"As  soon  as  I  saw  you  waiting  in  that  corridor,"  wsaid  his 
friend,  "I  thought  of  it.  Now  you  go  and  see  him.  You 
know  the  Colonial  Office.  He's  a  fine  old  boy  and  a  thorough 
gentleman.  There  are  prospects,  too,  I  may  tell  you.  It's  a 
sugar-cane  country,  and  I  believe  you'll  have  some  very  nice 
company  in  the  plantations  all  round.  And  I  believe  there's 
a  pension  after  twenty  years.  Well  .  .  .  not  that 
you'll  need  to  bother  about  it  by  that  time.  ...  As 
I  say,  it's  a  jumping-off  place.  Fine  country,  you  know. 
But  what  about  a  little  drink?     I  know  a  place  in  Chandos 


COMMAND  333 

Street — they  know  me  there.  And  now  about  coming  down 
to  Chingford.     .     .     ." 

Mr.  Spokesly  accompanied  his  friend  through  the  great 
Arch  of  Victoria  into  the  Square  and  as  they  made  their  way 
round  by  the  National  Gallery  he  reached  a  decision.  He 
would  go.  His  elderly  friend,  toddling  beside  him,  added 
details  which  only  confirmed  the  decision.  That  gentleman 
knew  a  good  thing.  He  himself,  however,  having  more  by 
luck  than  judgment  held  on  to  his  shipping  shares,  was  now  in 
a  position  of  comfortable  independence.  He  had  served  his 
country  and  sacrificed  his  sons  and  now  he  was  going  to  enjoy 
himself  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  After  drawing  enormous 
interest  and  bonuses  he  had  sold  at  the  top  of  the  market  and 
was  buying  bonds  "which  would  go  up"  a  stockbroking 
friend  had  told  him.  **  A  safe  six  hundred  a  year — ^what  do  I 
want  with  more.?"  he  wheezed  as  they  entered  the  place  in 
Chandos  Street.  "My  dear  wife,  she's  so  nervous  of  these 
shipping  shares;  and  there's  no  doubt  they  are  a  risk.  Mine's 
a  large  port-wine,  please." 

Yes,  he  would  go,  and  it  interested  Mr.  Spokesly  to  see 
how  little  his  tender  and  beautiful  picture  of  two  old 
people  "going  down  the  hill  together"  appealed  to  him. 
With  a  sudden  cleavage  in  the  dull  mistiness  which  had 
possessed  his  heart  for  so  long,  he  saw  that  there  was  some- 
thing in  life  which  they  had  missed.  He  saw  that  if  a  man 
sets  so  low  a  mark,  and  attains  it  by  the  aid  of  a  craven 
rectitude  and  animal  cunning,  he  will  miss  the  real  glory  and 
crown  of  life,  which  by  no  means  implies  victory.  He  was 
prepared  to  admit  he  had  not  done  a  great  deal  with  his  own 
life  so  far.  But  he  was  laying  a  new  course.  The  night  he 
received  his  instructions  to  depart  he  walked  down  to  the 
river  and  along  the  embankment  to  his  hotel  with  a  novel 
exaltation  of  spirit.  The  taste  of  life  was  coming  back.  He 
saw,  in  imagination,  that  new  place  to  which  he  was  bound,  a 
tiny  settlement  concealed  within  the  secure  recesses  of  a  huge 
tropical  harbour.  He  saw  the  jetty,  with  its  two  red  lights  by 
the  pipe-line  and  the  verandahed  houses  behind  the  groves  of 
Indian  laurel.     He  saw  the  mountains  beyond  the  clear 


384  COMMAND 

water  purple  and  black  against  the  sunset  or  floating  above 
the  mist  in  the  crystal  atmosphere  of  the  dawn.  He  saw  the 
wide  clean  space  of  matted  floors  and  the  hammock  where  he 
would  lie  and  watch  the  incandescent  insects  moving  through 
the  night  air.  He  saw  himself  there,  an  integral  part  of  an 
orderly  and  reasonable  existence.  He  had  no  intention  of 
wasting  his  life,  but  he  saw  that  he  must  have  time  and  quiet 
to  find  his  bearings  and  make  those  necessary  affiliations  with 
society  without  which  a  man  is  rootless  driftage.  He  saw 
that  the  lines  which  had  hitherto  held  him  to  the  shore  had 
been  spurious  and  rotten  and  had  parted  at  the  first  tension. 
There  was  time  yet.  What  was  it  the  elderly  lieutenant 
had  called  her?  "A  mill-stone  round  your  neck  aU  your 
life.**  No,  he  could  not  take  that  view.  He  did  not  regret 
that  supreme  experience  of  his  life.  He  recalled  the  swift 
derisive  gesture  she  had  once  flung  at  him  as  she  spurned 
his  reiterated  fidelity:  "You  learn  from  me,  to  go  back  to  an 
Englishwoman.'*  Even  now  he  delighted  in  the  splendid 
memory  of  her  charm,  her  delicious  languors  and  moments 
of  melting  tenderness,  her  anger  and  sometimes  smouldering 
rage.  No,  he  did  not  regret.  It  was  something  achieved, 
something  that  would  be  part  of  him  for  ever.  He  could  go 
forward  now  into  the  future,  armed  with  knowledge  and  the 
austere  prudence  that  is  the  heritage  of  an  emotional  defeat. 
He  looked  out  across  the  river  and  saw  the  quick  glow  of  an 
opened  cupola  in  a  foundry  on  the  Surrey  Side.  There  was  a 
faint  smile  on  his  face,  an  expression  of  resolution,  as  though 
in  imagination  he  were  already  in  his  island  home,  watching 
the  glow  of  a  cane-fire  in  a  distant  valley. 

And  eastward,  some  five  thousand  miles,  in  the  costly  Villa 
Dainopoulos  on  the  shores  of  an  ancient  sea,  Evanthia  Solaris 
pursued  the  mysterious  yet  indomitable  course  of  her  destiny. 
She  had  arrived  back  from  "Europe,**  as  has  been  hinted 
earlier,  in  some  disarray,  alighting  from  a  crowded  train  of 
frowsty  refugees,  silent,  enraged  yet  reflective  after  her 
odyssey.  At  her  feet  followed  the  young  Jew,  who  in- 
continently dropped  upon  his  knees  in  the  road  and  pressed 


COMMAND  335 

his  lips,  in  agonized  thankfulness,  to  his  native  earth,  "/e 
deteste  les  hommesl'^  was  all  she  had  said,  and  Mr.  Daino- 
poulos  had  spared  a  moment  in  the  midst  of  his  many  affairs 
to  utter  a  hoarse  croak  of  laughter.  Her  story  of  Captain 
Rannie*s  sudden  escape  from  the  problems  of  living  struck 
him  for  a  moment,  for  he  had  of  course  utilized  his  com- 
mander's record  and  peculiarities  in  explaining  the  disappear- 
ance of  the  Kalkis.  But  the  event  itself  seemed  to  perplex 
him  not  at  all.  He  said,  briefly,  to  his  wife  in  adequate 
idiom:  "He  got  a  scare.  He  was  afraid  of  himself .  In  wars 
plenty  of  men  do  that.  He  think  and  think,  and  there  is 
nothing.  And  that  scare  a  man  stiff,  when  there  is  nothing." 
Crude  psychology  no  doubt,  yet  adequate  to  explain  Captain 
Rannie's  unsuccessful  skirmish  with  life. 

But  Mrs.  Dainopoulos  was  not  so  callous.  She  suspected, 
under  Evanthia's  hard  exterior,  a  heart  lacerated  by  the 
bitterness  of  disillusion.  Who  would  have  believed,  either, 
that  Mr.  Spokesly,  an  Englishman,  would  have  deserted  her 
like  that?  Mrs.  Dainopoulos  was  gently  annoyed  with  Mr. 
Spokesly.  He  had  not  behaved  as  she  had  arranged  it  in  her 
story-book  fashion.  Evanthia  must  stay  with  them,  she 
said,  stroking  the  girl's  dark  head. 

As  she  did.  Seemingly  she  forgot  both  the  base  English- 
man and  the  AUeman  Giaour  who  had  so  infatuated  her. 
She  remained  always  with  the  invalid  lady,  looking  out  at  the 
Gulf,  watching  the  transports  come  and  go.  And  when  at 
last  it  came  to  Mr.  Dainopoulos  to  journey  south,  when  the 
sea-lines  were  once  again  open  and  a  hundred  and  one  guns 
announced  the  end,  she  went  with  them  to  the  fairy  villa  out 
at  San  Stefano  that  you  reach  by  the  Boulevard  Ramleh  in 
Alexandria.  It  was  there  that  Mr.  Dainopoulos  emerged  in 
a  new  role,  of  the  man  whose  dreams  come  true.  His  rich 
and  sumptuous  oriental  mind  expanded  in  grandiose  visions  of 
splendour  for  the  being  he  adored.  He  built  pleasaunces  of 
fine  marbles  set  in  green  shrubberies  and  laved  by  the  blue 
sea,  for  her  diversion. 

He  had  automobiles,  as  he  had  resolved,  of  matchless  black 
and  cream-coloured  coachwork,  with  scarlet  wheels  and  orange 


33»  COMMAND 

silk  upholstery.  He  imported  a  yacht  that  floated  in  the 
harbour  like  a  great  moth  with  folded  wings.  Far  out  on  the 
breakwater  he  had  an  enormous  bungalow  built  of  hard 
woods  upon  a  square  lighter,  with  chambers  for  music  and 
slumber  in  the  cool  Mediterranean  breeze,  while  the  thud  and 
wash  of  the  waves  against  the  outer  wall  lulled  the  sleeper 
to  antique  dreams.  He  did  all  this,  and  sat  each  day  in  the 
portico  of  the  great  marble  Bourse,  planning  fresh  acqui- 
sitions of  money.  His  wife  lay  in  her  chair  in  her  rose-tinted 
chamber  at  San  Stefano,  looking  out  upon  the  blue  sea 
beyond  the  orange  trees  and  palms,  smiling  and  sometimes 
immobile,  as  though  stunned  by  this  overwhelming  onslaught 
of  wealth  pressed  from  the  blood  and  bones  of  the  youth  of 
the  world.  She  smiled  and  lay  thinking  of  her  imaginary 
people,  who  lived  exemplary  and  unimportant  lives  in  an 
England  which  no  longer  existed.  And  near  her,  hovering, 
shining  like  a  creature  from  another  world,  clad  miraculously 
in  robes  of  extraordinary  brilliance,  could  be  seen  Evanthia 
Solaris,  the  companion  of  her  hours.  Often  it  was  she  who 
shot  away  along  the  great  corniche  road  in  those  cars  of 
speed  and  beauty,  their  silver  fittings  and  glossy  panels 
humming  past  like  some  vast  and  costly  insect.  She  it  was 
who  lay  in  a  silken  hammock  in  the  great  houseboat  by  the 
breakwater,  and  listened  to  the  sweet  strains  from  the  disc 
concealed  in  a  cabinet  shaped  like  a  huge  bronze  shell.  "Je 
deteste  les  hommes,*'  she  murmured  to  herself  as  she  wan- 
dered through  the  orange  groves  to  the  curved  marble  seats 
on  the  shore. 

Hearing  these  words  as  she  passed,  the  young  Jew,  working 
among  the  roses,  would  tremble  and  recall  with  an  expression 
of  horror  their  experiences  in  Europe.  Often,  when  in  their 
destitution  she  had  taken  him  by  the  hair  and  hissed  them 
in  his  affrighted  ear,  and  he  would  utter  an  almost  inaudible 
moan  of  "Oh,  Madama!'*  For  he  loved  her.  He  was  the 
victim  of  a  passion  like  a  thin,  pure,  agitated  flame  burning 
amid  conflagrations.  He  would  have  expired  in  ecstasy  be- 
neath her  hand,  for  it  would  have  needed  more  courage  to 
speak  than  to  die.     And  now  he  was  in  paradise  tending  the 


COMMAND  337 

roses  and  suffering  exquisite  agonies  as  she  passed,  her  beau- 
tiful lips  muttering,  ''Je  detests  les  hommes i"  As  perhaps  she 
did;  yet  she  would  sometimes  look  suddenly  out  across  the 
waves  with  smouldering  amber  eyes  and  parted  lips,  as  though 
she  expected  to  behold  once  more  the  figure  of  a  man  com- 
ing up  out  of  the  sea,  to  offer  again  the  unregarded  sac- 
rifices of  fidehty  and  love. 


THE  END 


Mine 


^;^ 


•i^i 


